


Bones

by hostilovi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Violence, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Slow Build, Supernatural Elements, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostilovi/pseuds/hostilovi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a Divine warrior of the Survey Corps, Marco fights to protect humanity against the forces of the Titans. When he is relocated undercover to Trost, he expects to see battle. What he doesn't expect is his very human next-door-neighbor, Jean Kirschtein.</p><p>Don't get involved with civilians, they said. It'll be easy, they said.</p><p>They didn't know Jean. And they didn't know his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steady, Ready, Strong

Control is a learned behavior.  
  
“You have strength, Marco,” my father told me when I was old enough to get into fights with the neighbor kids, “so you must be in control of your body.” He taught me how to break bones and the quickest ways to subdue an opponent—or if need be, to kill. He taught my hands to be gentle when I did not need to fight. And so I learned to control my body.

“You have intelligence, Marco,” he told me when I was old enough to argue with the same kids I had once beaten to the ground, “so you must be in control of your words.” He taught me skills of persuasion, how to read people so that I could win almost any argument. He taught me to rein in my sharp tongue and quick wits so that I considered what I said before speaking, when it counted. And so I learned to control my words.  
  
“You have a strong will, Marco,” he told me when I was old enough to form my beliefs and made the choice that would forever change me, “so you mustn’t lose your heart.”  
  
Perhaps I should have listened to his advice and taken better heed, for I, Marco Bodt, never learned to control my heart. I am a fool for it. I am better for it—better for _him._  
  
To be fair, my heart is not lost. I gave it to him, quite freely and without considering the consequences. Damn the consequences, I say. Maybe my father would not agree. His ashes can hardly tell me anything of worth except that life is fragile.  
  
Self-control is a virtue. So, too, is love.  
  
And if control is a learned behavior, love is instinct, as much a part of me as my bones.  


* * *

  


“Ah, Marco,” Erwin said, reaching across the desk to stolidly clasp his hand between his, fatherly smile softening his features but not dulling the edge in his gaze. “Punctual as always.”  
  
“I try, sir.”  
  
“The reports from Sina just came in yesterday. I’m impressed how you handled the situation.” They both sat and he pulled a thin file from the meticulously organized stacks of papers and books. He pushed it towards Marco, keeping his fingers on it so the younger man couldn’t take it just yet. With apprehension starting to gnaw at his belly, Marco let the smile from the commander’s compliment vanish and schooled himself to stillness.  
  
“This may seem abrupt.” Erwin’s electric blue eyes watched him intently before he nodded once and removed his hand from the file. “I’ve put in the orders for your transfer.”  
  
Marco did not blink. He did not touch the file. _Calm down, Marco. Keep your control._ With a deep even breath, he nodded, more to buy time than in actual understanding. Erwin’s smile widened just for a moment.  
  
“No need to look so serious, Marco. You must be aware of the hotspots that have been showing up more frequently. I’m having you transferred as support for the current teams covering the Trost district.” Erwin gestured to the file, which he opened at last. Some of his anxiety vanished when his eyes scanned over the familiar names of the warriors already in place. All of them were from the 104 th training squad, the squad he had been raised with. There was the Shingansina trio, Mikasa, Eren, and Armin, as well as the infamous Demon trio of Annie, Reiner, and Bertoldt.  
  
“I’m being transferred alone, sir?” he inquired after a moment.  
  
“That’s correct. I assume that won’t be a problem?”  
  
“No, sir. I’m accustomed to going solo.”  
  
It wasn’t lie, but sometimes he _did_ envy the others who had established squads. He was friends with them, absolutely, and he could work with anyone and get along fine, sure. But Marco had never had a solid companion remain at his back. _That’s what you get for devoting yourself so early. It’s not like nobody warned you._ It also had something to do with his transfer from the Military Police to the Survey Corps. _Now is not the time to think about that._ Marco inhaled, exhaled, and looked back up from the file. Erwin watched him with something close to fondness.  
  
“That’s part of the reason I chose you for this mission. You’re an exemplary warrior, Marco. I know I can rely on you to get the job done.”  
  
“T-Thank you, sir.”  
  
Erwin waved him off after they exchanged a few more words about the particulars of the mission—like where he would be staying, when to check in—and Marco went back to his bunk, three levels up, to store the file before dinner. He would leave in the morning, 06:00.  
  
He packed his things neatly—a quick job, considering all his things were regulation and there was no reason to bring any of his few personal items. Uniform, check. Main and auxiliary weapons, check. Emergency rations, field medical kit in case his regeneration abilities went out of whack. Communicator. Check, check, check. The room was utterly silent except for the sound of his breathing and the rushing of wind from outside the barracks. The dwindling number of recruits in recent years for the Survey Corps meant that everyone got individual housing. Marco would never admit to it aloud, but he almost missed the Training Squad barracks, where they were all housed together.  
  
Well, he wouldn’t miss tripping over everyone else, but the company, the camaraderie, the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one waking up screaming from the dreams or because he’d accidentally shifted in his sleep—he missed that.  
  
Of course, he didn’t scream much anymore. You could get used to anything, given enough time. Adjust, compensate, compartmentalize. Minimize the damages and carry on.  
  
Marco stretched his arms above his head with a sigh, tensing all his muscles before dropping back on his heels as he relaxed. The dinner bell clanged from the lower levels, and after sparing a moment to change from his formal dress to the nicer of his two casual shirts, he left the bunk and joined the trickling of other squad members on the same level to the jump point.

  


There were stairs installed in the building, naturally, but they were only really useful if you were carrying something down or up a level or two, or if the weather was bad enough, although some of the warriors counted it as a rite of passage to make a jump in inclement conditions. Otherwise, with a building that had well over seventy floors, the stairs were the least efficient mode of travel if you wanted to move a significant distance.  
  
Hanji had installed pole chutes on some of the floors reminiscent of the ones firefighters used in the civilian human world, but you always ran the risk of jumping into the middle of one of her experiments, so those were generally only used by her squad members.  
  
There were a few other options available.  
  
One, the pegasi. Those were mainly used for travel between the other faction buildings as messengers, and only accessible in the Aviary on the very top floor, the 40th floor, or the landing space in the courtyard. Not to mention Dita didn’t let just _anyone_ ride one of his beasts. So for most people, the pegasi were out.  
  
Two, the 3D maneuver gear. This was mainly used by the humans, although all warriors were required to become proficient in its use. The straps and belts meant to distribute the weight were a royal pain to get on and off, so if it wasn’t necessary, it was avoided. Regular drills were run to make sure no one got rusty, and Marco didn’t mind doing it—the free-fall was exhilarating—but he had seen the massive, semi-permanent bruises the gear left behind on humans. He didn’t envy them that.  
  
Three, you transformed.  
  
Obviously, this was an option that was only available to non-humans.  
  
Marco smiled at the people around him, exchanging idle words, speculation about dinner, gossip from between the Survey Corps squads. Apparently Hanji had made some sort of breakthrough in her research and was running her squad ragged. The space between his shoulder blades was already aching with anticipation, so he didn’t pay much heed to any of the words floating around him. When the jump point came into view, they all stopped talking anyway, too focused on their own impending transformations, except for the humans in gear who loped away to their separate jump point so as not to get entangled in anyone’s wings.  
  
Marco hung back so he could go last, politely not letting his eyes linger as each new jumper sprouted their wings. It was a sight you got used to very quickly, but he, like most Divine warriors, considered the moment of transformation to be something private. The Demonic warriors were much less reverent of their transformation, and when Marco had once asked Eren about why, he’d only shrugged.  
  
“Maybe because it’s hideous in comparison? And I mean, at this point it’s unlikely anyone will lose control of themselves, but it’s always a possibility, I guess.”  
  
“All of us look fairly hideous, Demonic or not,” Marco had replied.  
  
“Well, full-out, yeah, I won’t argue that. We’re all gross. But when it’s just the wings, I’m pretty sure I’ve got you beat in the ugly department.”  
             
 _Now is not the time, Marco._  
  
As he stepped out onto the ledge, Marco inhaled. The wind curled around him, slick with cold and carrying the scent of stone and the far-off flowers of spring. On the exhale, he spread his arms out slowly, concentrating on his wings finally taking physical form. The sting of shifting muscles was familiar, as was the brighter pain of his body adjusting to the weight of all three sets. Light and air crackled around him and _in_ him as bones grew and extended, feathers slid out from the new skin and sinew.  
  
He watched the other warriors in flight, letting the ache settle.  
  
He stepped to the edge, wings held close to his body. Leaned forward, anticipating.  
  
Plummeted. Spiraled.  
  
Marco let a few floors flash by before he unfurled his wings with a snap, catching the warm rush of an updraft and following it by instinct, up and up with a silent rush of exhilaration. Flying was something that never became old. He indulged for a few minutes, circling in the air, before diving all the way to ground level, backpedaling a little at the last second to soften the impact.  
  
With the absence of his concentration on holding the partial transformation, the wings dissipated, melting back into light and air and nothingness. It was a duller pain. A heavy rebalancing act that took a matter of seconds, just like their formation took, but felt more prolonged.  
  
He let out a breath, and followed the crowd inside.

  
  
  
Mealtimes were a loud affair, for the obvious reasons. With well over 200 Survey Corps members, there was bound to be noise when nearly all of them gathered together in one place. Space was plentiful though, if a bit overwhelming at first. Marco collected his tray from the people on kitchen duty and nimbly navigated through the sprawl of tables, benches, and chairs until he found an open space away from the larger clumps of warriors.  
  
With no neighbor to keep him occupied with small talk, his thoughts turned to his new mission. Trost district. He’d been there a few times before, though never for an extended amount of time, and never in a situation where he was undercover with civilians. The undercover part wasn’t difficult, but it had been a while for him. More troubling were the over-active hotspots that seemed to have even Erwin concerned. Marco just hoped the teams in place were managing to keep up with the Titans and the dangerous fumes they left behind before they could reach the civilians.  
  
“Look alive, Bodt.”  
  
Marco nearly choked on his mouthful of mystery nutrition when the corporal plunked down unceremoniously across from him at the table, but quickly recovered with a cough and smiled hesitantly.  
  
For once Levi wasn’t being flanked by his squad, which was almost more disconcerting than his presence. Levi and his squad were bar none the most skilled veteran warriors around. Even when you got to know him better—or rather, even when he went on one of his frequent ‘everyone is going to clean this shitty barracks until I say it’s clean’ sprees, it was difficult to feel anything but respect for him.  
  
Well. Respect and a healthy dose of fear.  
  
“Heard you’re getting shipped out,” he said without preamble, looking him over with his typical semi-glare. That wasn’t unusual; Levi and Erwin were close. There was a longstanding bet going in the Corps that they were both best friends _and_ lovers, but no one so far had really figured it out. Marco figured it wasn’t any of his business what they were or were not doing with their genitals. Together or otherwise, really.  
  
Marco also liked keeping his head attached to the rest of his body.  
  
“Yes, corporal. Just as backup for the teams in Trost. The hotspots have gotten particularly bad in that district, lately.”  
  
“Hotspots are always bad in that shithole.” The other man shifted the hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head. “You deserve more than _just_ backup, Bodt. You’re too good a soldier for all this squad hopping bullshit.”  
  
“C-Corporal?”  
  
He rolled his eyes and picked up his fork, waving Marco’s feeble protests away. “Just an observation, relax. You being sent out alone means that the old man trusts you. So do me a favor, Bodt, and don’t fuck it up.”  
  
“Uh, yes, corporal…” Marco eyed him nervously. Levi sighed again.  
  
“I already told you, relax.” He chewed his food meticulously and took a drink of his tea before speaking again. “I’ll have you assigned to my own squad officially when you get back. Could use some fresh blood to get those shitheads in top form again.”  
  
Marco’s heart nearly stopped. An official squad meant comrades. People who would have his back. And to join Levi’s squad—there was no higher honor he could think of for any warrior.  
  
“Do you really mean that?” he asked, definitely too eager and earning himself another stone-grey glare.  
  
“Only on the condition you stop being so uptight, Bodt. Gonna make yourself constipated, acting like that.”  
  
Marco thanked him, profusely and sincerely, receiving another eyeroll and barely perceptible smile in response. Levi was apparently done being sociable after their brief exchange, so Marco returned to finishing his dinner. It had been a long time since Marco had had real prospects.  
  
But first came Trost.

 

  
***

 

  
Trost had always been weird. Lately though, it had been a little _too_ weird.  
  
Rumors were flying, most speculative and unfounded, like the ones about superhuman beings that lived among them, although it was a toss-up on whether they were protecting humanity or out to destroy it. That wasn’t anything new. Rumors of ghosts and shadows, sudden attacks and people disappearing. That? That was new.  
  
But Trost was home. It was shitty, but it was home. Home was a good thing, familiar, solid. Even if Jean was renting a shitty house in a shitty neighborhood and forced to put up with a shitty job because the pay was half-decent.  
  
The only saving grace was his roommates. They could be irritating, but he’d been friends with Sasha and Connie back when they went to the public high school just across from his private school—Christ, how he had wanted to transfer out, but he stuck with it for his mom—and he caught them trying to sneak into the kitchens.  
  
They weren’t terrible. Definitely not. He’d lived with way worse before.  
  
His father, for one thing.  
 _  
Shit._  
  
Jean stamped his feet a little inside his ratty Converse as he waited for the bus to show up—sometime this century would be nice, thanks—and fiddled with the cords of his earphones plugged into his iPod that had died an hour ago at the tail end of his shift. The earphones served to keep people from starting conversation, so he just kept them in.  
  
Jean Kirschtein was many things, but a people person he was not.  
  
He would have remained content to stand there if a car hadn’t pulled up the curb and honked until he deigned to look up from the broken sidewalk with a glare and saw his new neighbors waving him over. Well, Armin was waving him over with a pleasant smile. Eren was holding the steering wheel like it might buck out of his grasp like a wild beast, eyes fixed forward. Exhaling through his nose, Jean roughly pulled the earbuds out and trotted over, leaning down when Armin rolled the window open.  
  
“Want a ride, Jean?”  
  
“Uh…” he glanced over to Eren, who grimaced in an approximation of a smile, finally looking over. They didn’t _dislike_ each other, exactly. But Jean hadn’t had enough time to interact with the man to know if he was just naturally abrasive or actually an asshole. “If that’s…okay, yeah. If you’re going back home.”  
  
“Yeah, get in! Just, you know, push some of the stuff over if you have to.”  
  
Jean clambered into the back of the Civic with a mumble of gratitude, pushing some of the bags—groceries?—aside. Eren actually waited until he buckled in before pulling away from the curb and beginning to crawl along at the speed of a particularly cautious grandmother on her way to a church luncheon.  
  
“He’s a little nervous about driving,” Armin said to him, sotto voce, and Jean bobbed his head in understanding. Everyone had their thing. If he were less tired and wasn’t currently mooching a ride off them, he’d probably tease Eren about that, but he was an exhausted mooch.  
  
“Shut up, Armin,” Eren said. His voice was strained, jaw clenched. “Feel free to take over at any time.”  
  
“It’s good for you to get outside your comfort zone sometimes.” The blonde man patted his rigid shoulder comfortingly.  
  
“I didn’t know you guys had a car,” Jean said after a moment, to break the silence that had fallen in the stale air.  
  
“Oh, it’s a rental.”  
  
“What do you need a rental for?” he couldn’t help asking. Trost, for as shitty as it was, did have public transport that was more or less reliable, and definitely faster than trying to maneuver through traffic once you got to the city proper. Here, on the outskirts, it wasn’t so bad, but still. The three of them had seemed to get around quite well without a car before now, not that Jean knew where they disappeared to. Any polite inquiries about their work was just as politely and smoothly unanswered.  
  
Jean sort of thought they must be part of a gang.  
  
Which, looking at Armin’s bright smile and small stature, was difficult to believe, but Jean had seen how cold and calculating his eyes could go. He had seen Eren’s honest expressions contort in uninhibited fury. And Mikasa…well. Mikasa was beautiful, in the same was a black panther was beautiful. Dangerous. Look but don’t touch and definitely don’t piss her off.  
  
Jean just really hoped they weren’t tangled up in drugs.  
  
Or murder. That too.  
  
Did murderers like cream soda so much they bought it in bulk? Jean uneasily pushed those thoughts aside, toeing the 32-pack away when it inched towards him as Eren made a jerky left-hand turn.  
  
“Oh, well,” Armin glanced towards Eren briefly. “We have a friend who’s coming to visit for a while, so we thought it might be nice to go pick him up ourselves. He’s nice! You’ll like him.”  
  
“Everyone likes him,” Eren added.  
  
Jean mentally categorized the unknown friend—and possible cohort in the non-gang-related, non-drug-dealing, non-murderous exploits of his neighbors—as probably lame, or one of those overly cheerful optimistic people.  
  
“Enough about that, though, tell us about your day, Jean!”  
  
It was weird having people ask about his day and genuinely want to hear. Or at least, weird to have people besides Sasha and Connie, who lived with him and were therefore obligated by good roommate code to commiserate about shitty job situations, ask. And his mother, but they didn’t talk much these days. But ever since the odd trio had moved in next door two weeks past, all three had taken a polite interest in Jean—and Sasha and Connie. It was weird having people be _nice_ when they didn’t stand to gain anything. Jean figured they were friendly because the rest of the neighbors were batshit crazy on the best of days.  
  
Still. Looking in the gift horse’s mouth and all that.  
  
Jean grudgingly related a few anecdotes from his day at the hospital, not that there was much interesting about the work of a clinical lab technician to someone without medical knowledge. Hell, even _he_ didn’t think it was that interesting. One of his co-workers had jumped ship, not that anyone cared since he usually showed up only half the time he was scheduled. Another lady tried to set him up—again—with her daughter and Jean had been forced to—again—decline, to which she then questioned if he was sure he wasn’t just gay.  
  
“Like, just because I’m bisexual doesn’t make me fucking desperate, you know?”  
  
The two men in the front seat nodded sympathetically.  
  
The car finally pulled into the driveway. Eren waved off Jean’s half-hearted offer to help carry their groceries inside as Mikasa bounded down the porch steps. Her and her step-brother shared a brief look in which they seemed to communicate silently before she shouldered both cases of cream soda, nodding in a passing greeting to Jean. Armin smiled, and followed after them.  
  
Jean exhaled, breath turning to faint smoke in the chill of the not-quite-spring air, and trotted across the sparse lawn to his own house. It wasn’t much to look at, from the outside, but Sasha’s beginnings of a garden crowded in the windowsill to catch the meager sunlight was enough to draw the tension out of his shoulders.  
  
It wasn’t much to look at from the inside, either.  
  
Whatever. Who the hell wanted to live in a damn IKEA catalog, anyway.  
  
The moment Jean shut the door, Connie darted down the stairs, skipping the last two with natural ease to avoid getting gouged by the nails that stuck out no matter how they hammered them back in. His shouted greeting was lost on Jean’s ears as he side-stepped an overenthusiastic hug from Sasha as she ran in from the kitchen, food splattered all over her apron.  
  
“Aw, Jean—”  
  
“No way! Just because I have to do laundry this week doesn’t mean I want to wash off—what is that?”  
  
She huffed, tossing her brown ponytail over her shoulder and contenting herself with using her boyfriend as an armrest. “Tomato sauce, dumbass. It’s spaghetti night, _duh._ ” It still looked disturbingly like blood, but Jean _loved_ spaghetti night.  
  
“Garlic bread?” he asked hopefully.  
  
“You bet your sweet ass,” Connie said with a wide, crooked grin.  
  
“Mm, that ass certainly is sweet.”  
  
“Sweeter than sugar.”  
  
“Sweeter than apple pie.”  
             
“Sweeter than honey.”  
  
“Sweeter than sweet tea on a hot summer’s day—”  
  
Jean rolled his eyes, interrupting before they could really get on a roll with their combined powers of idiocy. “Shut the fuck up about my ass. I’m going to change.”  
  
The black scrubs were very comfortable—and Jean personally thought he looked good in them—but germs hung on to the fabric like they did any other clothes and wow, talk about taking your work home with you. Gross with a heaping side of gross.  
  
Jean hopped up the stairs with more energy than he felt, surprised to hear Connie at his heels. His expression, when Jean glanced back, was uncharacteristically serious, but when he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, Connie shoved him down the hall to his room.  
  
“So like, Sasha freaks out at this stuff, but. There have been a lot more people…just disappearing from campus lately. Not just the homeless people anymore, either.” Scratching his leg with the opposite foot, he ran a hand over his close-cropped hair with a frown. Connie attended the local university for elementary education, and always, thanks to his social nature, had a finger right on the pulse of the city gossip. “So just like—I don’t know. It’s kind of freaking me out, too, but I thought you might have heard a thing or two, since you’re at the hospital. About _them._ ”  
  
Jean was ready to peevishly snap out that he spent all day in the basement lab, running tests on blood and other bodily fluids, why the hell would he know anything, but the sharp edge of fear in Connie’s amber eyes made the words stopper up in his chest.  
  
“I don’t know anything,” he answered truthfully and a little more kindly. If he was being honest—one of his few good points, when he wasn’t being a smartass about it—all these disappearances were setting him on edge, too. If Trost went to hell, really went—where did that leave him? Where did that leave any of them? And it was too childish to believe those rumors about superhuman beings that protected humanity. It was pointless to believe in things like guardian angels, because like heroes, they just didn’t exist.  
  
And hell, if it was demons Connie was after, he could point him to a few of the people on the street. Look no further than your fellow man if you’re looking for evil.  
 _  
I’m going to regret this,_ Jean inwardly sighed as he shrugged out of his scrubs top and tossed it into the overflowing laundry bin in the corner, taking a moment to straighten his white undershirt before speaking again.  
  
“I’ll ask around. The ER crew is bound to know something if there’s news. I can’t promise I’ll find anything you don’t already know,” he added, obligingly curling one arm around his friend when Connie sprang forward with a grateful hug, demonstrative as always.  
  
“I know that, horse face.”  
  
“Says the monkey.”  
  
“Oh, shut up, man.” He pulled back and darted away, throwing a casual but genuine thanks over his shoulder, leaving Jean to finally change out of his scrubs and into something marginally more clean. That ended up being yesterday’s sweatshirt—an obnoxious galaxy print one that was a gift from a few years back—and grey lounge pants.  
  
That much accomplished, Jean flopped back on his unmade bed. He thought, idly, about changing the sheets, before remembering he only had the one set. He thought, wearily, about whether they could scrape by on rent this month and whether they could get the landlord to knock the price lower on account of them finding rats in the basement again.  
  
There were potentially supernatural _things_ on the loose in Trost that had it out for humans and he had to concern himself with rats. Was that good? Bad? It was such a dramatic train of thought it made him nauseous. He should call his mom, make sure she was still okay.  
  
“Fuck that,” he told the mold patterns on the ceiling. The nausea stayed so he curled up on his side and turned his gaze to the spider that had recently taken up residence between the wall and his nightstand. Jean was a realist. Pragmatic. He didn’t believe in ghosts or angels or demons. It was too much effort to get his hopes up, that something purely _good_ was out there, only to be disappointed.  
  
“Fuck that,” he said softer. The spider continued hulking in its corner, darkly ominous but comfortingly familiar. One of these days it would probably bite him in his sleep.  
  
Sasha yelled up the stairs that if either of them wanted to eat they’d best get their asses down to help her out. It was enough to draw him out of his reverie. With a groan, Jean hauled himself upright, taking the time to scribble a few notes in purple highlighter on a random open notebook on his cramped desk, before he tromped back down the stairs, hollering a refusal to chop onions. Because screw onions.  
  
‘Answers for Con’.  
  
‘Call mom?’.  
  
‘New sheets next paycheck’.  
  
‘Kill the fucking spider you absolute child’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> It's my first time publicly posting a fic so uh...go easy on me, guys. Hopefully you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing! Feel free to point out any errors that I missed, since I did a lot of work in the past few hours and it's...3am. Feel free to come say hi on tumblr too.


	2. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco enters the civilian world and unites with the Shingansina trio. Titans are generally horrifying. Everyone but Armin hates the car. Jean’s a big infatuated dork who spends too much time on the computer.

Crossing over into the civilian world was a lot like crossing the border into a different country. There were a lot of annoying regulations and procedures to jump through and at the end of it all, you step over a line, turn back and want to scream because _it all looks the same, damn it, I haven’t gone anywhere._ The first time Marco went over it had been terribly underwhelming. At the borderline, there was a hazy film that separated the civilians from the warriors, invisible to them, and stepping through it didn’t feel like much of anything—a quick chill, maybe.

  
Thankfully, Erwin had sent his papers ahead of time to expedite his passage, so when Marco stepped up to the patrol house, Nanaba did little more than check him over for anything non-regulation and waved him through with a lazy wish for his safety on the journey.  
  
The air was different. Less clean.  
  
Levi had come to him that morning as he prepared to leave the barracks, although he claimed it was coincidence that they ran into each other.  
  
“I don’t think I have to remind you to stay clear of Leonhardt.”  
  
“Corporal?” Marco had smiled, uneasy. Because it had been something he was avoiding thinking about until he was forced to deal with it. “We were raised in the 104 th together. Not to mention, I’ll have to coordinate with both teams while I’m in Trost.”  
  
“She’s MP, Bodt. The sooner you wrap your head around that the better.” His cool grey eyes lingered on the right side of his face, where faint traces of scarring still remained despite how well his regenerative healing had worked. It wasn’t like the scars were disfiguring, but the pale lines were an obvious interruption to his dark, freckled skin. The ones hidden beneath his clothes were worse. Marco swallowed hard, tamping down the swell of unpleasant memories that rose with the meaningful stare, and counted silently until he felt more in control of himself. “I don’t think I have to remind you how much you can trust the MP.”  
  
That hurt. Just a little, but it hurt. _I was MP once, sir, so do you not trust me either?_ That was a ridiculous question—now. When he had first transferred, that was a different matter entirely. Marco clenched his jaw and shoved those memories away, too.  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Then stay clear of her.”  
  
“Is that…” Marco refused to be outwardly fazed by the condescending quirk of his eyebrow. “Is that an order from you or from the commander, sir?” There was a brief flickering of emotions that shifted across Levi’s face. So it wasn’t an order. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with that bit of knowledge. Perhaps he should be pleased that his commanding officers were concerned for his well-being, but Marco felt a bit sick to his stomach, like he wasn’t sure if the wires on his gear would hold as he fell.  
  
“Listen, Marco.” The sound of his given name falling from the other man’s lips was as strange as the brief clap of his hand to Marco’s arm—and there was strength there, more strength than his stature belied. “There are worse places to have transferred from. You know that, I know that. Keep your fucking head in the game, don’t get tangled with Leonhardt’s shit, and make it back in one piece.”  
  
Marco nodded. “I’ll do my best, corporal.”  
  
It was a good few hours hike from the borderline to the chosen rendezvous point. Time enough to get used to the air and to clear his head. Time enough to stop thinking about the Military Police and his scars. Time enough to stop thinking about the ‘worse places’ Levi was referring to.  
 _  
Prospects,_ Marco reminded himself gently. _I’ve got prospects now._

 

  
  
  
Eren was the one to pick him up, surprisingly. When Marco spotted him, he was obviously bored, his upper body flopped back against the hood of a nondescript black car, and didn’t notice Marco approaching until he cleared his throat. Immediately he shot up, green eyes wide and a boyish smile lighting up his face when he saw him.  
  
“Marco!”  
  
“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” he said with an apologetic smile, but Eren waved it away.  
  
“Nah, it’s cool. Mikasa and Armin left on patrol this morning and there wasn’t anything to do, so I accidentally left early.” Eren ruffled a hand through his unruly hair, bouncing up on his toes. “You got civilian clothes with you? Armin wasn’t sure if you would so I’ve got some in the car if you don’t. There’s no one around, so I thought it might be easier for you to change here than it would be to sneak you into the city as is.”  
 _  
Ah. That’s right._ His least favorite part about going undercover was dressing for the role. Not that civilian clothes were uncomfortable, but it made for awkward transformations. Dull as their regulation uniforms were, they accounted for their wings and were durable enough not to tear to shreds when their skin changed.  
  
“Well, it’s nothing fashionable, but I have a few things.” Marco swung his pack down and rummaged through until he found his clothes. He scanned the area, but like Eren said, there was nothing but unmown grass, some scraggly trees, and what looked like an abandoned warehouse. “How bad are things here? Commander Smith made it out like it was a disaster zone.”  
  
“Well…I won’t deny it’s bad.” Eren scratched his nose, not averting his gaze as Marco efficiently stripped down and tugged on his clothes, shivering when the chill air touched his bare skin. He wasn’t _staring_ , although Marco did feel his eyes flicker over his scars for a brief moment. Probably remembering the incident that caused it, since they had both suffered injuries from that time. The whole 104th had seen each other naked—accidentally or just from spending years changing around each other—so being observed wasn’t anything new. “Armin can give you the details. There’s been a lot of activity, if Reiner, Bertholdt and Annie weren’t stationed here, there’s no way we’d be on top of it. But it’s more like…we can feel something building. Like they’re restless, waiting to make some kind of move.”  
  
That was an unpleasant thought. Titans didn’t have much more intelligence than it took to identify their prey—humans—and their enemies—the warriors. Marco didn’t care for the implications of how Eren described the situation.  
  
Soon enough, Marco was shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers and straightening the long sleeves of his plain grey shirt. It was just cold enough that he thought about pulling on a sweater, but the car probably had working heat, so he left it at that. Eren popped the trunk after some fumbling with the keys. After folding his uniform tightly and closing his pack again, he tossed it in with his boots.  
  
“The corporal sends his regards, by the way.”             
  
Eren snorted. “Yeah? What’d he really say?”  
  
With a hum, Marco stretched before hopping in the passenger seat, twitching at the sound of the engine starting. “If I remember correctly, it was ‘tell the fucking brat not to shit his pants or he’ll answer to me’.” It was Levi’s approximation of regards. They both laughed as Eren slowly bumped his way back to the main road.  
  
“That asshole,” Eren said fondly.  
  
Levi and Erwin had both taken parental roles in his life once he graduated the 104th. Or rather, they had agreed to take responsibility for a Demonic warrior that wasn’t completely stable even after spending three years training. It just ended up turning more parental after realizing, as most of the 104th had, that beneath his anger and single-minded drive to kill Titans, Eren was starved for positive attention and approval from other people.  
  
It was a long drive to Trost from the rendezvous point, made longer by Eren’s obvious discomfort at being the one driving and even more obvious desire to drive five miles below the speed limit. If he wanted to switch, Marco wouldn’t argue, but he seemed oddly determined. Maybe the stories about Armin’s terrifying driving skills were true. Instead, he kept him distracted by asking questions, telling him how his last mission went in Sina, asking after his boyfriend and his step-sister.  
  
“You know, I was worried about Survey sending backup until they said it was you,” Eren admitted an hour later, as they approached the outskirts of the city.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I’d pick any of the 104th over anyone else. But especially you. I—we all trust you to make the right decisions out in the field.” He flushed a little bit. “Plus you’re like…I don’t know. A big brother.”  
  
“I thought that was Reiner,” Marco said after a moment, chest warm but terrible, as always, at just accepting compliments. He laughed.  
  
“No way, man! Reiner is our mama bear.”  
  
Now _there_ was some imagery.  
  
“Mama bear Braun, huh. Don’t tell him or he’ll want an official shirt.”  
  
Their communicators buzzed angrily, interrupting their conversation. Marco’s hand flew out, grabbing the small rectangle from where he had placed it in the drink holder. They were modeled after civilian cellphones, without any of the extra functions. He, like all warriors, had had to sit through a lecture given by Hanji about how they specifically worked, but  most of it had gone way over his head.  
  
“This is Bodt, go ahead,” he said after he flipped it open and held it to his ear.  
  
“Marco, hey.” Armin’s voice was distant but urgent. “Ready for action?”  
  
“Always. There a problem already?”  
  
“Yeah, pseudo-hotspot sprang up out of nowhere. Put Eren on, I’ll tell him where.”  
  
Marco obligingly held the communicator to the other man’s ear while he drove, until Eren nodded as permission to close the line down. After spitting out a low curse, he gritted his teeth, pressing gingerly down on the gas pedal to jerk them up to and over the speed limit.  
  
“No civilians around, so if we act fast there won’t be casualties,” he barked out. “We’re ten minutes out. They’ll be there in five.”  
  
Marco could see the instant that Eren realized that abandoning the car and using his wings would take less time to reach the others. Carefully, he gripped the other man’s wrist, not threatening but hopefully reminding him to behave. There would be witnesses if he just suddenly took off like that. His own blood was buzzing with the promise of battle but he had more self-restraint than Eren, who was just this close to the wrong side of berserker when he really got going.  
  
“Armin will kill you if you cause a scene,” Marco said softly.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“They’ll be fine. Your sister’s amazing. Armin’s amazing. We’ll be there soon. They only have us beat by a few minutes.”  
  
“I know.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened, then relaxed. “I know. Thanks. Soon as we find an alley close enough, we’re ditching this piece of junk.”  
  
“I won’t argue with that.”  
  
Marco squeezed his wrist gently and let go. Something about being able to fly or maybe just not growing up with them made cars seem like claustrophobia-inducing deathtraps.  
  
It took seven minutes to find an alley and Marco jumped from the car before Eren even parked it, focusing his senses and smoothly breaking into a run. Eren was quickly at his heels, shoes slapping against the gritty, trash-littered concrete.  
  
They were easy to find, even with the barrier Armin had erected, and they both burst through the hazy illusion of nothing and straight into battle.  
  
It was the sound that hit him first, then the stench. The furious bass screams of the Titans—seven, he counted fast, already mid-transformation—and the cloying smell of their overheated flesh and blood, old and new. The defensive poison fumes they spewed forth was already hanging in the air. Four two meter classes, two three meter classes. Mikasa had one down, dancing on to another and Armin—there. Holding out against a smaller one, armed with a blade from his 3D gear.  
  
“Go!” Marco shouted, although Eren hardly needed any such direction, pelting towards his friend with a roar of his own. His skin burned from turning from soft human flesh to armor and twisting lines of exposed muscle. No time to wait for wings. Snarling, Marco launched himself forward, smashing his plated forearm like a club into one of the creature’s faces, followed by a vicious stomp to the knee that shattered bone. It screamed but Marco was already clawing at its neck, wrenching apart the fleshy bundle of nerves, hissing as the steaming blood splattered at his face.  
 _  
Next._  
  
One of the three meter Titans was already stumbling its way to him and there was no avoiding the clamp of stinking teeth on his arm. Pain flashed up his body in staccato bursts as the teeth sank, grinding, through skin and muscle to bone. With a strangled yell, Marco jammed his knee to its side to little effect. It was too heavy, one of the more strongly armored types.  
  
“Marco, down!”  
  
He dropped hard and felt more than saw Mikasa streak past, striking the killing blow with deadly precision. Marco punched at the dead Titan’s face until its now mangled jaw unclenched, ignoring the scrape of concrete, blood, and grime as he rolled awkwardly back onto his feet. Searching for the next in the cloud of steam and poison fumes. Eren and Mikasa were off to his left, still fighting, Armin just behind them.  
  
The moment his eyes fell on the last Titan, edging along the wall of the abandoned building, his body was moving forward, ignoring the sting of regenerating flesh on his injured arm. It  
saw him coming but rather than advance it dropped into an awkward crouch, fists raised.  
 _  
Is it…trying to defend itself?  
  
Calm. Take control._  
  
Marco feinted a punch towards its face with his uninjured arm when he got close enough, barely flinching as its teeth snapped towards him. _Control, control, control._ He kicked and it fell, clumsy, to its knees. Using his momentum Marco leaped on top of it, scrabbling at the neck until he reached the weak spot, fingers sinking deep through the unprotected skin to the muscle beneath that shredded like wet paper. It went limp beneath him with a fading shriek. _  
_  
Eren screamed—fury, not pain.  
  
The space was suddenly still, filled with steam from the decomposing bodies, and the rotting stench of fumes the Titans gave off. Marco coughed weakly, still scanning for more enemies. _  
  
It was trying to defend itself, that’s not right._  
  
Titans weren’t smart enough to defend. They only attacked. They attacked their prey—humans—to eat, or the warriors, maybe because the Titans recognized them as part-human or they just recognized the threat of a predator.  
  
“Anyone hurt?” he called out, gaze finally setting on the Shingansina trio. There was blood. There was always so much blood. His arms were drenched to the elbow, with Titan blood and his own. Even though he could see them clearly, the words were automatic. “Who’s still here, sound off.”  
  
“Here,” Mikasa said at once. Unwavering.  
  
“Here,” came Armin’s breathless voice.  
  
“Here.” Eren’s response was more of a wheeze as his transformation slowly undid itself, vocal chords rearranging from his Demonic warrior state. His form was about as close to Titan as it got without actually _being_ a Titan, but Marco trusted in him. They all did. The confirmation of their voices—alive—was a comfort. Marco moved in closer, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as his skin made the change from armor and crystal scales to unprotected skin and his arm finished regenerating.  
  
For several long moments they all just stood where they were, catching their breath, except for Mikasa, who didn’t have the decency to even be winded. She was calmly wiping the blood from her arms and hands with a black and white checkered handkerchief she drew from her back pocket, one eye ever watchful on her step-brother. Eren was significantly less composed, head tilted low and hands on his knees, letting Armin use his back as support as the smaller man scribbled notes all over the map he had drawn out after giving his bloody hands a cursory cleaning. The blade he had used to fight with was haphazardly jammed back into the odd rectangular case he carried them in while undercover.  
  
Human he was, but he was nearly as efficient as Erwin, and certainly as ruthless. Other than panting for breath, he wasn’t shaken, expression showing nothing but focus as he wrote.  
  
Deciding his shirt was a lost cause, considering all the tears and stains, Marco tugged it off and wiped himself clean, tossing it over one shoulder before approaching Armin and peering at the map.  
  
“This is the tenth fucking time,” he said viciously, shoving his pencil back into his half-ponytail, glaring down at the paper like it would change the marks there. The hotspots were marked in red ink, but Armin had drawn ten circles that he assumed were what he called the pseudo-hotspots. Without looking over, he simply said, “Mikasa, if you would.”  
  
She grunted in response, adjusting her red scarf before pulling out her communicator and stepping off a few meters, her voice a throaty rumble as she spoke to whoever was on the other end. Annie, probably. Marco clenched his hands into tight fists, the soft discomfort of his short nails digging into his palms grounding him enough so he could speak calmly.  
  
“We’ll need to meet with the others. I’m assuming that’s what you’re doing.”  
  
“You assume correctly.”  
  
“And you’re calling them pseudo-hotspots because…?”  
  
“Because I don’t have anything else to call them. Hotspots are established areas, they don’t just _change._ ” Huffing out a breath, he shook his head. “So these events are random, yes, but they are happening too often to _be_ random.”  
  
“Give me a scale to work with, Armin, how bad was this compared to the other nine events?”  
  
Armin didn’t relax, but he folded the paper back up, rubbing a gentle hand on Eren’s spine, and the line between his eyebrows vanished.  
  
“I can’t give you an exact measurement. This was certainly the messiest because of the lack of warning.” Marco offered his ruined shirt wordlessly upon seeing Eren’s grimace of disgust, and the other man nodded his thanks, normally green eyes still backlit with a golden sheen. “There were fewer Titans, but they seemed…prepared. You felt it too, right?”  
  
“I felt it. They tried to defend.”  
  
“They’re getting smarter,” Eren spit out, tone clipped. He was always wound tight after battle, needing time to separate his fury-driven warrior state from his humanity. With an eerie intensity, he dabbed at a few specks of blood on Armin’s neck. “There’s some in your hair,” he said in a fretful undertone, only for the small man’s ears.  
  
“It’ll wash out,” Armin replied neutrally, but he curled an arm around Eren’s waist, letting him drop his head onto his shoulder. His dark skin made a glowing juxtaposition next to Armin’s pallor. Addressing Marco again, he continued his answer. “And if they’re getting smarter, they’re either evolving or someone is teaching them.”  
  
“Is that…even possible?”  
  
Everything evolved. Marco understood that. But this was too sudden.  
  
This was the _Titans._  
  
“Maybe.” Armin frowned. “I need to contact Hanji, get their take on this. But we can fill encyclopedias with all the things we just don’t know about the Titans.”  
  
Mikasa came back over, touching Eren’s shoulder briefly.  
  
“They’ll be ready to meet at 0300. Their place. Bertholdt took a rough hit and needs extra time to recover.”  
  
“How rough? Is he okay?” Armin asked immediately.  
  
“Annie said he was healing fine, just slow.” She tilted her head, neck popping with a liquid crunch. “I wouldn’t worry, I’m sure Reiner is taking care of him.”  
  
“Mama bear Braun,” Eren murmured into Armin’s hair. They all smiled, but it was exhausted and lacking humor in that moment. Fighting did a lot to remind a person of all the people they had lost, and it wasn’t many warriors who still had family around.  
 _  
So much for staying out of Leonhardt’s shit.  
_  
This would be the first time Marco would see her since he left the Military Police. Four years, now. The best he could hope for was that he didn’t have to directly speak with her in a one-on-one situation. She’d been pissed that she left—not for his reasons, but because they had been partners and she didn’t trust any of the others to guard her back. Marco hadn’t begged forgiveness or permission. She had her boys. Even if they were in the Garrison and was MP, the Demon trio usually got sent out together, being one of the strongest offensive combinations they had. Not to mention there weren’t enough warriors that the MP couldn’t afford to send some of theirs out to the civilian world sometimes.  
  
So Marco had told her he was leaving. Explained—poorly, desperate and disillusioned—why. And he had left.  
  
It wasn’t a move he regretted. That didn’t make it hurt less.  
  
“Marco?”  
  
He came back to himself quickly, shivering as the sweat cooled on his bare skin. The three others were watching him curiously.  
  
“Sorry, what was that?”  
  
“The fumes get to you?” Eren asked in concern and he forced a laugh, shaking his head.  
  
“No! No, I’m fine. Though, I, uh,” he resisted the urge to rub a finger beneath his nose, knowing it was a dead giveaway that he was nervous, “I’ll take you up on that offer of clothes, if you don’t mind.”  
  
The calm, easy tone he affected was enough to diffuse the remaining tension, and they all headed back to the car, Eren teasing that Marco would look like an old man in the clothes Armin had picked out, which quickly devolved into Armin pointing out that he had the tastes of a child and Eren trying, and failing, to deny it. The clothes ended up being a plain white shirt and a tasteful green sweater. Mikasa and Eren did a quick shirt change as well before they all piled into the car and headed towards what would be home for as long as they were stationed in Trost.  
  
The car ride was long and numbing.  
  
Armin drove, after promising not to go faster than ten over the limit and ‘settle down, it’s a car, not a monster’, followed by ‘I drive like a normal human, shut up’. Mikasa and Eren dozed in the backseat, leaving Marco to stare out the window at the dim scenery, trying not to flinch at how close Armin cut his turns. He itched to take a shower. _Titans with intelligence._ Did they have any hot chocolate at the house? Hot chocolate was one thing civilians did right. _Titans with a purpose that isn’t just kill and eat._ Hopefully there were enough beds or at least a semi-comfortable couch for him to sleep on. _Titans with the capability to evolve._  
  
Marco inhaled and exhaled steadily, filing away each thought, each extraneous feeling into small labeled boxes and shutting them away in the dark.

 

 

  
  
  
Home, apparently, was a two-story house that slanted a disturbing amount to the right, the white paint peeling back from the boards, the lawn not so much a lawn as it was a breeding ground for rocks and weeds. A quick glance up and down the street had Marco thinking they had done pretty well. The windows were still intact, after all.  
  
“We take what we can get,” Armin said, laughter in his tone.  
  
“Oh, I know.” Marco flashed him a smile. “It’s just been a while since I’ve been undercover, I forgot how great some of the places we get are.”  
  
“Survey isn’t a favorite for funding.”  
  
No, it certainly wasn’t. Things had gotten better with Erwin in charge, but only half of the issue was politics. The other half had more to do with the fact that Survey seemed to attract the least socially well-behaved people. Once the car was parked, they all piled back out. Marco stretched his cramped muscles with a sigh, wincing at the sting of his newly healed injuries. He was ready to crash, a combination of blood loss and adrenaline. _  
_  
“Oh, Jean!” Armin said in greeting to someone. Mikasa and Eren were already trooping up to the house with eerily well-matched strides. He turned and saw a slim young man with two-toned hair Armin had addressed, wearing a scowl as casually as his clothes.  
  
“You’re back early. This is our friend, Marco.”

 

  
            ***

 

  
Jean’s day so far was turning out to be unproductive.  
  
He was used to working strange hours, since he was just a lab tech and hospitals never shut down—people may call New York the city that never sleeps, but each hospital is a city unto itself and it never, ever stopped moving.  
  
Thanks to them being short a tech, he was obliged to take on an additional share of work. It wasn’t bad, but he was tied to his workspace in the basement when all he wanted was to do was take a break and go up to the ER and snoop around for answers.  
  
For Connie, he wanted to insist to himself. But it turned out, somewhere between his iPod dying—again, piece of shit—and him slamming his alarm off at five that morning, Jean had come to the conclusion that his non-belief in the supernatural aside, the whole situation was scary. And what better way to deal with the things that scare you than to throw yourself, screaming, headfirst into the fray?  
  
That could be the sleep deprivation talking.  
  
Or that can of Monster he took from Connie’s stash.  
  
Maybe he was just being stupid about all of this. It wouldn’t be the first time. But after an hour of tossing on his bed, Jean had migrated over to his desk and began to research the depths of the internet for all the information he could find regarding supernatural activity in and around the city of Trost. A lot of what he found was pure bullshit, naturally, but eventually he started coming across stories that seemed eerily legitimate, forums dedicated to sightings. There were pictures going as far back as the 1950’s, blurry shots of giant _things_ much too large to be human, yet humanoid in shape. There were also a scattered handful of images Jean came across that were just as blurry, but seemed to be the silhouettes of humans with wings.  
  
They called them angels.  
  
It had to be photoshopped. He had downloaded a few to his laptop anyway. Tracing the unfocused outlines with his eyes in the dark, bundled beneath his star-patterned comforter like it would keep out the anxiety and fear. Jean didn’t believe in angels, firstly because it was a ridiculous notion, secondly because then he’d have to believe in demons too.  
  
Not believing didn’t help him sleep any sounder.  
  
The moment it was time for him to take his lunch break, Jean bolted for the door, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because he had too much pent-up energy to handle the confined space.  
  
When he came to the floor with the emergency department, Jean stopped at the desk to peruse the schedule and see who was on duty. Daz’s name caught his eye. No one else he knew well, unfortunately, since Nac and Samuel wouldn’t be around until the evening. A few charming smiles later, the lady at the desk told him Daz had just headed off to the doctor’s lounge.  
  
“Daz, wait up!” Jean called out when he caught sight of him in the hall. The man grinned, happy to have attention, but seemed confused.  
  
“Jean? Jean Kirschtein? Are you out getting samples? I don’t see you out and about the floor much, you’re usually lurking downstairs.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Can’t help that. Actually, I just had a quick question to ask,” Jean said, casually as he could manage. Daz raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh? What’s that you say? The mighty Kirschtein is in need of my assistance? Hold on, let me get a video camera, record this moment for posterity.”  
  
“Oh, come on—I’m being serious, man.” Now Jean remembered why he tried not to spend much time with the guy if he could avoid it. He was a good person, mostly. Just…there were only so many times a guy could rub him the wrong way before Jean got tired of it. Daz laughed.  
  
“All right, shoot.”  
  
“I was just…look, this is going to sound weird, but I’m being serious. So just…hear me out.” Pushing aside his misgivings was difficult, but remembering the look on Connie’s face was enough to make him barrel onwards. “We both know that Trost is messed up _._ And that lately things have been worse. I was just wondering if you’d heard anything about what was going on. To do with the disappearances.”  
  
Daz’s entire face blanched, jaw going slack an instant before it snapped closed. Expression contorting, he grabbed Jean and pushed him, hard, until his back hit the wall, his hand convulsively curled in the black of his scrubs. Jean craned his neck, but for once there was no one else in the hall. _Of fucking course._  
  
“Daz, what the fuck—”  
  
“Don’t ask about that,” he said, low and desperate. “D-Do you know what will happen if you ask too many questions about that? They’ll take you next.”  
  
“Christ, Daz, I was just—”  
  
“Shut up. Please.” The man let go and wiped the sweat from his face with trembling hands. “I have to get back. Don’t go asking around anymore, Kirschtein. Just…don’t. It’s not safe. Okay? Not safe for anyone.”  
  
Long after Jean returned to the basement to finish up his day’s work, the encounter stuck with him. The fear in Daz’s face had been real enough. What did he mean though, not safe? And ‘they’ll take you next’? Was he talking about the giants or—Jean didn’t want to call them angels, but it was the only term he had. It was ambiguously ominous. Something was going on in Trost, something bigger than anyone wanted to admit.  
  
Between running his tests, Jean continued scrolling through page after page of information on the internet until his phone battery gave out, not caring how completely strung out he must appear to his co-workers. He needed more information, he needed _proof._ Yet it was as though he didn’t know any of the right words, had no idea what to search for.  
  
The bus ride back home was unbearable. Jean was ready to burst out of his skin every time someone looked at him, as if they could read his thoughts, as if they could see through the thin black cotton of his scrubs to his frail fearful heart. He nearly tripped on the stairs exiting the bus, then again on the broken lines of the sidewalk, breath coming shaky and unfulfilling to his lungs even though he could taste spring on his tongue.  
  
Jean had just reached the bottom of his driveway when a black Civic pulled in next door, Armin in the driver’s seat and a stranger next to him. He paused. It must be their friend that was going to be stay with them.  
  
Jean wasn’t a people person. But he was maybe a little nosy. A lot nosy. Whatever.  
  
Mikasa and Eren didn’t pause even though Jean stood in plain view, going into their crooked house without so much as a wave. Something about the way they moved in tandem made the hair on the back of his neck rise. More than usual, something was just off about them. Armin did wave though, darting over with the stranger in tow once he caught sight of Jean.  
  
“Oh Jean! You’re back early. This is our friend, Marco.”  
  
The words Armin said after that were inconsequential. The weight of sleeplessness and his newfound fears suddenly seemed intangible.  
  
Marco was a dark-skinned man with broad shoulders and warm brown eyes, all long legs and _freckles_ just everywhere. There was a pervading sense of calm that radiated out from him, like it was the rippling aftershocks of his existence. Armin was cute; Mikasa was beautiful; Eren was bristling with passion—and yes, okay, Jean was ready to admit the guy was, objectively, hot. But Marco.  
  
Marco.  
  
Like…damn.  
 _  
Marco.  
_  
Jean could get used to living next to this guy, no problem.  
  
And suddenly, he was very close, his hand held out for him to shake.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you, Jean.” The timbre of his voice was surprisingly light for someone so big, but it made him shiver all the same.  
  
“Oh, um.” Jean quickly clasped hands with the most attractive human being he had ever laid eyes upon, hoping he would attribute the clammy sweat on his palm to something other than gross nervousness. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”  
  
“Marco’s pretty beat from the journey, so we’re going to head inside—but I’m sure we’ll have time to hang out later!” Armin said cheerfully and Jean refocused on him. There was something in his long blond hair. Paint? Blood? No, no. Paint. Definitely paint.  
  
“Sure, that’s—yeah. Cool.”  
  
Marco inclined his head slightly, waving a little as the two turned and headed to their house. Jean felt guilty about noting that the view from the back was just as nice from the front, although not guilty enough to look away. _He’s probably straighter than a goddamned sign pole,_ he chastised himself, finally gathering the wits to stop gawping like a creep and go inside.  
            

 

  
  
  
Jean went back outside after using up most of his two hours of having the house to himself, having put a quiche in the oven since it was his day to cook, taken a shower, and plugged in his phone to charge and sent a text to Connie. Jean had taken one look at the nightstand spider. It looked bigger and hairier than he remembered it being and to be honest, he had dealt with too much that day to deal with _that._  
  
“Tomorrow, you little fucker,” he hissed before swiftly moving back. Just in case it was the kind that jumped.  
  
One of the few nice things about their house was the porch swing, and that’s where Jean settled himself, propping his feet up on the railing and just breathing. He left the front door propped open with a convenient rock taken from their front yard, bugs be damned, so he could listen for the oven timer.  
  
He must have dozed off, crashing from his energy drink driven high, because Jean woke to Sasha flopping down next to him, smelling of half-dried sweat and her grapefruit deodorant.  
  
“Ugh,” he groused, edging as far away from her as he could, but the swing was only built for two and there was nowhere to go.  
  
“Ugh, yourself! Rude.” She was subdued as she usually was right after work. Some people teased her that she only chose to become a personal trainer to work off all the calories she ate, but Jean knew better. Even back in high school, she’d been a bottomless pit, and she hadn’t done sports on account of the coaches not thinking she was enough of a ‘team player’.  
  
“Don’t ‘ugh’ me, you haven’t earned the right. Unlike _some_ people, I’ve showered today.”  
  
“I’ll get there, jeez.” She elbowed him hard enough to drive the breath out of him and Jean shot her a glare. Her smile was unrepentant, the neon orange of her shirt making her expression even brighter. “What’s for dinner?”  
  
“Connie requested quiche. There’s leftover potatoes, so we’ll have those too.”  
  
He was expecting a comment on how he was completely hopeless in the kitchen unless what he was cooking involved eggs, but she just nodded, face suddenly going serious, turning her head to squint out at the empty street.  
  
“Speaking of Connie. Some of the kids he knew from Ragako disappeared,” Sasha said without preamble, rocking them so the swing gave an unholy shriek of rusty protest. Jean flinched, looking at her hardened expression. Jean had had his suspicions about why Connie was so invested in what was going on, but hearing it out loud was harsher. Even though Connie had been out of foster care since he graduated, he had still dropped by the orphanage to help out the other kids sometimes.  
  
“He thinks I don’t know, but I do. I noticed how edgy he’s been, so…”  
  
“Sasha, you know he didn’t want—”  
  
“He didn’t want me to worry.” Her smile was tight. “I know. But I’d rather be freaked out and know what’s going on than not know anything at all. And I want to be there for him, you know? We’ve already been through so much crap, it doesn’t seem fair that he holds out now.”  
  
She rocked the swing again. There was a can of WD-40 in the house, somewhere, Jean was sure of it, and he made a mental note to use it on the chains. He couldn’t take a whole spring and summer of listening to that creaking.  
             
“I didn’t find anything out, really,” Jean admitted. “Just that…that things are bad. Which, we already knew that. Do you want me to…?”  
  
“No, I’ll talk to him later.”  
  
“All right. Your boyfriend, your call.”  
  
They were quiet for a few minutes before Sasha voiced another question.  
  
“Do you believe in them, Jean?”  
  
“Them?”  
  
“The angels.”  
  
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant before his brain caught up and he closed it again, planting his feet so the swing couldn’t move. “I don’t know what to believe,” Jean said at long last, honestly, and Sasha laughed, a sound of releasing tension rather than true amusement, hopping to her feet and ruffling his hair as she passed.  
  
“Me neither, Jean. Gonna go shower so I don’t have to listen to you whining.”  
  
The oven timer buzzed. Glancing once more at the quiet house next door, Jean followed her inside.

 

 

  
  
  
Sleep was evading him again.  
  
Following Connie getting home and having dinner, there had been an awkward half-hour while Jean grudgingly did the dishes and Sasha gave her boyfriend a talk about Why You Shouldn’t Hide Important Things From Your Important People. Jean had expected it to end up with them aggressively cuddling on the couch, since that was a thing they did post-argument, but instead he had been dragged into the fray, dirty dishsoap water and all. It soon ended in a messy I Love You Guys So Much So Let’s Please Not Die Yet conversation.  
  
There was no graceful way to escape those conversations, but when he saw an opportunity Jean slipped away up to his room.  
  
And here he was now, unable to sleep despite the heaviness that infused his bones, pressure building behind his too-dry eyes from staring at his computer screen. The research was getting repetitive. He considered joining one of the forums so he could ask questions, promptly discarded the idea, then considered it again. Jean started a half-assed document about the details he was fairly certain might be true but it only amounted to a page. The cursor blinked over and over, the fan whirred irritably. _I know. I want to sleep, too_.  
  
Though he was sure to have nothing but bad dreams.  
  
The highlighter list he had hastily made yesterday was taped on the wall, lest he forget anything, and the thin paper felt a lot like a great beast looming over him. Be an adult, Jean. Man up, Jean. What, Jean-boy can’t sleep? Is Jean-boy afraid of the dark?  
  
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, burying his head in his arms. Trying to escape the sneering voice coming from the depths of his head that always sounded far too much like a version of his father.  
  
Afraid of the dark? No. Afraid of what might or might not _live_ in the dark.  
  
Jean sighed, then nearly startled out of his chair when a car engine roared into life from next door. _What the hell._ He got up from his desk, narrowly avoiding braining himself when his feet got tangled in the chair legs, and skittered to the window. The lone streetlight cast a weirdly yellow illumination, but it was enough to make out the four figures of Armin, Eren, Mikasa, and Marco piling into their rented Civic.  
  
It was what, almost three in the morning?  
  
Jean continued staring as the car pulled from the driveway and vanished from sight, breath fogging up the grimy glass.  
  
Three words to describe those people. Shady as fuck.  
  
Which was unfortunate from a certain point of view. You would think that a bunch of people with such a high level of collective attractiveness would be slightly more upstanding members of society. But if his neighbors were involved in a gang or cult or _whatever_ , Jean probably came across as absolutely, harmlessly normal, thus increasing his chances of…well. _Too early to think about that, Jean Kirschtein. Stop that immediately._ Increasing his chances of being friends with them. There. He could do friendly.  
  
“As long as it’s not murder,” Jean muttered uncertainly. He resolutely didn’t think about the paint—not blood, definitely not—that had been in Armin’s hair, but still couldn’t move from the window for several minutes. He tried to think of Marco but his mind, ever the one-track variety, kept pulling up the blurry photos of supposed angels he really wished he hadn’t downloaded after all.  
  
His phone dinged cheerily from the corner and Jean gave a strangled yelp and really did fall. Right on his ass, thank you, yeah, that felt great. The sound of Connie’s uproarious laughter from somewhere downstairs told him who the text was from.  
  
He read it anyway, after getting up with what remained of his dignity.

**From: Connie  
Sash and I can’t sleep, watching pac rim again if ur awake**

Another text came in right as he was reading the first.

**From: Connie  
OMFG ur such a moron ahahaha**

**From: Sasha  
do that again omg u sounded like a dying cAT**

“I could have seriously injured myself!” Jean hollered, throwing on sweatpants over his boxers regardless. The distant sound of them both cracking up was the only response. “Shut up, you guys are such _assholes_!”  
  
Nothing was as therapeutic as watching a couple of determined humans take on giant monsters with his best friends adding lame commentary while they all huddled around Connie’s giant desktop. Jean eventually did sleep, fitfully but without dreams, nothing but blue behind his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Early update because I'm sick and have nothing better to do than write since I'm hanging out in bed.
> 
> Relevant to the story: the Titans that come through to the civilian world are basically the small-fry, since canon size Titans would be impossible to miss. There will be canon-size Titans in the fic…probably just not walking around the streets of Trost like hungry Godzillas. Anything else that was confusing...probably will be answered later on!!! But feel free to ask if you want.
> 
> (pac rim is referring to Pacific Rim in case that was too ambiguous, I don't want to assume everyone has seen that movie)
> 
> And don’t worry, Jean’s going to be seeing lots of Marco from now on. That’s what we’re all here for, haha. Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://hostilovi.tumblr.com/).


	3. Suppression and Regeneration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco encounters some old friends. Jean finds that being abandoned for the evening by his housemates has a surprisingly positive outcome.

“That is _a lot_ of cream soda.”

“Are you seriously starting that, because I swear, Marco—”

“I’m not judging!” Marco hastened to assure Eren, even though he was internally being _very_ judgmental, if only out of concern for the trio’s health. There were two full cases stacked next to the whirring refrigerator, and a third that looked half-empty. “That _is_ a lot of cream soda. I’m just making an observation.”  
  
The other man nodded, moving past him and opening one of the cupboards. He rummaged briefly before tossing a cardboard box his way. Marco only caught it by reflex. “Good, because I’ve seen the damage you can do.”  
  
He looked down and nearly moaned. _Hot chocolate._ “There _is_ a god,” he exhaled, already moving to the fridge to get the milk.  
  
“Yeah, and his name is Armin. He insisted on getting some for you once we found out you were coming.” Eren cracked open a can of soda—even the smell was enough for Marco to cringe, fearing for the safety of his teeth—and flopped gracelessly at the table across from Mikasa, who had a can of her own and was meticulously cleaning her fingernails over a daisy-patterned napkin.  
  
“Saucepans are in the top right cupboard,” Armin said absently from the stairwell, where he was still fussing with his maps and making sure all his blades were clean. “If you don’t mind, your new deity will be taking a shower.”  
  
“I call next,” Mikasa said, eyes narrowed in concentration. One of the side effects of training under Levi was realizing just how filthy the world around them was. Of course, there were generally only two reactions to that, the first being, like Mikasa and Eren, you grew a newfound habit of cleaning and practicing thoroughly good hygiene. The second…well. Marco wasn’t sure if the second actually applied to anyone outside of Hanji, who seemed to delight in the mess and the dirt, and more importantly, irritating Corporal Levi.  
  
Eventually Marco had concocted his drink just to his liking, dumping the contents of two hot chocolate packets into the steaming milk and taking a seat next to Eren. He took a sip and the rich warmth rushed over his tongue and down in throat, relaxing muscles he didn’t know were still tense from the fight. The distant sounds of the shower running upstairs was hypnotic enough that Marco found his mind emptying of all thoughts, made easier by the fact that Eren and Mikasa had fallen into one of their strange silences. By the time Marco’s drink was gone, the shower had stopped, and Mikasa immediately got to her feet, tugging the end of her red scarf.  
  
“Eren,” she said evenly, “you should show Marco around the house.”  
  
He grunted in response.  
  
“Eren.”  
  
“Yes, I heard you, all right. House tour. I’ll do it.”  
  
There wasn’t much to tour. The kitchen that they were in was passably nice, if he ignored the questionable stains in the sink and the cracked checkerboard floor tiles. The living room was occupied by a squashy couch with plaid upholstery, an armchair that was a horrific shade of green, and a plain coffee table. There was a door to the basement but Eren made a strange face, simply saying that they didn’t go down there. There was a glass doorwall to get to the few meters of scraggly backyard they had, but the glass was so grimy on the outside, littered with bug corpses and other less easily identifiable smudges, that the idea of touching it was wholly unappealing. Eren led him up the creaking stairs, pointing a finger to the bathroom where Mikasa was showering, a closed door to the room he and Armin were sharing, an open door to the room his sister had chosen, and then finally the room that Marco could occupy.  
  
It was small, the roof slanted, and there was no bedframe for the mattress. However, the whole room smelled like it had been cleaned—and Eren was already rambling about how the first thing they had done was give the house a good cleaning—and the mattress was fully made with green cotton sheets and a down comforter.  
  
“It’s great, Eren,” he assured the other man, smiling at the sheepish way Eren ran his fingers through his hair. It was longer than he had kept it during their training years, a reverse image to Mikasa, who had chopped her black hair even shorter. Marco’s hair was much the same as when he was younger, thick and unruly except for the shaved undercut.  
  
“Well, it sounds like Mikasa’s out, so you can take next go at the shower if you want?”  
  
“You go,” Marco urged him. “I still have some settling in to do.”  
  
With a bob of his head, Eren ducked out of the room, leaving him to gaze around the room. He went to the window and found that it overlooked the negligible space between their rented home and the neighbor’s. Jean’s house.  
  
Jean had seemed…odd, for a civilian. Or perhaps Marco just wasn’t used to what civilians were like anymore, having been kept out of the undercover scene for so long. It had been endearing though, watching the honest expressions slide across his sharp features; surprise, at first, then a tidal wave of nervousness that he had tried to mask with politeness. Taking a few even breaths and doing his best not to wince at the chemical scent of cleaner as it sank into his lungs, Marco left the window to fetch the car keys from Armin and retrieve his belongings from the trunk.  
  
Armin was shirtless, drying his hair with a towel while he perused a few papers cross-legged on his and Eren’s shared mattress, and tossed the keys over without comment.  
  
Unpacking was simple. The uniform and rations stayed in the pack, his boots and the med kit went into the corner. He resettled the few civilian clothes he had taken from storage before leaving the barracks, refolding some before arranging them on top of his uniform. His communicator he placed carefully next to the mattress, close enough to reach when it inevitably woke him up. After a moment of deliberating whether it was paranoia or habit, Marco pulled out his weapons—two flat-bladed daggers, one long, one short. The long one he slid beneath his pillow after checking the edge, setting the short one aside to strap on after he showered.  
  
 _Stay out of Leonhardt’s shit.  
  
Make it back in one piece.  
  
Do me a favor, don’t fuck it up.  
  
_ Sir, yes sir, he thought dryly. _  
  
_Marco exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his palms hard to his thighs as he knelt on the bare wooden slats of the floor, tracing the trails of gouges in the wood with his eyes.  
  
He gratefully showered once Eren was done, giving himself a cursory scrubbing all over before taking a minutes to enjoy the lukewarm spray of water. All trace of injury, even bruises, had vanished from his body, leaving only his freckled dark skin behind. All good, all normal. Marco ran a palm flat across his belly, rubbing the edges of the scarring on his right side. None of it was bad enough to hinder motion, but the rough tissue was the worst on his torso, occasionally pulling at his muscles in a way that felt nauseatingly similar to having his skin peeled back without the pain. His leg, thankfully, just had scarring near the hip and upper thigh in a rough circle where the Titan had—  
  
The space between his shoulder blades was itching as his adrenaline threatened to spike up again, urging him to shift forms. Marco dropped his hand, shutting down his train of thought and the cooling water with smooth precision.  
  
He dried himself off and dressed on autopilot, strapping his short dagger to his ankle, and went to return the car keys to Armin, since he had no desire to drive the vehicle himself. Finding his room empty except for Eren’s softly snoring form, Marco headed back down the stairs.  
  
Armin had built himself a research nest in the living room. Marco recognized the sight back from their training days, papers and books piled and scattered with no apparent organization system to keep them sorted. Armin himself was huddled on the ground in the space between the table and the couch, muttering to himself as he pored over notes.  
  
“Do you want the keys back?” Marco asked, once it become obvious that Armin either hadn’t noticed him or was actively ignoring his presence. One small hand popped up, into which he deposited the keys, and watched with quiet amusement as it sank back down.  
  
Marco needed a distraction if he had any hope of making it through tonight’s meeting with the Demon trio. After a moment of observation, he sat at the other end of the table.  
  
“May I ask you something?”  
  
Armin made a noise of mild interest somewhere beneath the piles of papers, which Marco took as a go-ahead signal. Knowing he wasn’t being observed, he rubbed a finger beneath his nose, gaze drifting idly over the maps spread out, edges held down with soda cans filled with rocks and various rusty tools as paperweights.  
  
“How much do you know about our neighbors?”  
  
“They all keep to themselves for the most part. We’ve only had substantial contact with the ones next door, Jean and his housemates. I’m sure you’ll run into them all at some point. Other than that, the general consensus is to mind your own business. It’s a good setup.” Armin finally emerged, damp blond hair pulled into a haphazard bun, dark shadows beneath eyes that were soft in color but sharp in attention. The beginnings of a smile played on his lips. “Something tells me you’re curious about one neighbor in particular.”  
  
Considering he had only met one of their neighbors, it wasn’t a huge leap to make but Marco still found himself fighting down his automatic flustered response and instead giving a nonchalant shrug. Judging from Armin’s expression, it wasn’t fooling him. “He seems,” _attractive_ , Marco had to bite back, “very interesting.”  
  
“That’s one word for it.”  
  
“And what word would _you_ use?”  
  
“Single,” Armin said casually, shuffling some of the papers in his hands and grinning when Marco inhaled sharply. “Very single.”  
  
“You know we’re not encouraged to fraternize with civilians,” Marco chastised weakly. This conversation wasn’t going as he had anticipated, but then, he had forgotten Armin’s ability to pinpoint weaknesses and use them for his own personal amusement.  
  
“I also know for a fact that he is interested in men.”  
  
 _Well, shit._  
  
Marco wasn’t the kind of person to have a ‘type’. Being a warrior didn’t exactly leave a lot of free time for cultivating romantic relationships, since most of the time they were more concerned with staying alive to be bothered. He had been attracted to a fair few people in his time, but in terms of looks they were all across the board.  
  
Jean, however, had struck something at once, something deep and reverberating that drew Marco like the far-off cry of a bird to its kin. Bordering on scrawny, skin pale, and narrow hazel eyes bright beneath his furrowed brows, he wasn’t exactly the poster child for Prince Charming, but whatever he was, it worked. The unruly mop of tawny hair on top of his head that faded into the darker scruff on his neck made his fingers itch with the desire to touch it; the delicate strength of his long fingers as they clasped with his made him wonder just what those hands were capable of doing.  
  
 _Control yourself, Marco. You’re an adult. With looks like that, he’s probably an asshole._  
  
“You can call it information gathering instead of fraternizing if it makes you feel better about it,” Armin said. “I know you haven’t been undercover in a while, it might do you some good to chat with the locals.”  
  
“Armin—”  
  
“There’s no harm in flirting, Marco, honestly. People have done it before you, people will do it after you. Doubt you’ll have much time for it, anyway, but as your friend I thoroughly encourage it. You’ve gotten uptight in your old age.” Armin waved him away, returning to his papers. “Go get some sleep, Marco. You’ll be needing it.”  
  
Marco did return to his room, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. Armin did technically outrank him—as a lieutenant he outranked them all, actually, even if he rarely pulled rank in an official capacity with his friends.  He sprawled out on his surprisingly comfortable mattress, feet dangling over the edge, drawing in deliberate breaths that did nothing to still the fluttering in his chest.  
 _  
Don’t fuck it up._

 

  
  
  
  
The drive took around twenty minutes of Armin pealing down back roads and ignoring various road signs on the way, but the car was soon pulling into a neighborhood with only slightly more good taste than the one they were situated in. Eren and Marco both went for the doors the moment the car stopped moving, followed by a more gracefully exiting Mikasa and a snickering Armin.  
  
The house of the Demon Trio had a yard with actual grass, and the house itself wasn’t tilted as theirs was, but it was difficult to discern any further details in the dark of pre-dawn, so Marco dutifully followed his three companions across the damp lawn to the porch. Before they could knock, the door swung inwards with a truly horrific screech of wood and rusting metal, revealing the already beaming face of Reiner. Clothed in a too-tight black shirt and jeans, the big man looked every inch a civilian, albeit a very musclebound one.  
  
“Come on in, everyone, come on in!” Reiner stepped back so there was space for them to troop into the house. “Snacks are on the table. Or you can call it breakfast, ha!”  
  
They all said quieter greetings and thanks as they stepped forward.  
  
“Marco, good to have you on the team!” He clapped a companionable hand to Marco’s shoulder as he entered the house.  
  
“How’s Bertholdt holding up?” he asked cordially.  
  
“Better by the minute. You can ask him yourself though.” Reiner nodded towards the combined kitchen and dining area where the others had already headed. “He insisted on getting up for this.” Despite his smile and the good cheer in his voice, there were tight lines of worry around his eyes and mouth, and his fingers tightened briefly on Marco’s shoulder.  
  
“What happened?” he asked in an undertone, knowing the soft buzz of conversation would cover the noise of his voice.  
  
Reiner shook his head once. The smile slipped from his face, leaving behind hard planes and angles, a perfect soldier but for the raw concern in his eyes.  
  
“Just a bad strike. Lost an arm, some other minor damage, nothing that hasn’t happened to any of us before. But the regeneration just wouldn’t take, and when it did, it was moving so slow. Been running himself ragged, what with the hotspots acting up, the six of us barely able to cover things, and his nerves—you remember how he used to get?”  
  
“I remember.”  
  
“Then you know. He needs to rest and he’s not.”  
  
Marco gripped the forearm that was still connected to his shoulder, offering what quiet comfort he could. It had been a good year since he had last crossed paths with Reiner and Bertholdt, seeing as the Garrison and Survey rarely worked the same jobs, but the camaraderie of their youth remained.  
  
“That’s what I’m here for,” Marco reminded him and Reiner nodded, finally letting him go and beckoning him into the house.  
  
By the time they reached the kitchen, the bigger man had dropped most of his tension and was smiling, calling out loudly to the group already bunched at the table. Marco slid into an empty chair next to Bertholdt, who smiled faintly at his warm greeting, leaving Reiner to sit between his tall companion and Eren. The tall man looked even warmer than usual, beads of sweat visible on his neck and face—Marco wondered how he could stand the healing process, since he ran a naturally high body temperature even without his powers kicking it into overdrive.  
  
“Help yourself to anything you like,” Bertholdt said with a nod towards the plate of bagels, muffins, and fruit at the center of the table. There was one person who was conspicuously absent from the gathering.  
  
“Is Annie out on patrol?” Mikasa asked, saving him the trouble of doing so. There was an odd emphasis on the way she said Annie’s name, which probably had something to do with the equally odd rivalry the two women had once had.  
  
“Yeah, but she’s due back any time. We can start without her, and I’ll bring her up to speed on anything she misses later on.”  
  
“In that case,” Armin pushed the plate towards Eren and Mikasa who were both wolfing down the food with the rapidity of remembered days of hunger, and spread out one of his maps, using three apples and one of his elbows to keep it from rolling up again. It was the same map he had been scribbling on earlier, red circles delineating the pseudo-hotspots from the normal ones.  
  
“Unless you have any new ones to add, these mark where the events took place and when. If you’ll notice the proximity to the known hotspots,” he tapped the paper with his fingers to illustrate the distance between a few, “so far, the farthest has been two miles, and they’ve never been closer than three-quarters of a mile.”  
  
“Is that significant?” Bertholdt was nervously skeptical.  
  
“Probably not, but it _is_ detail. I don’t think we can afford to ignore details at this point. If we operate under the assumption, for now, that two miles is the extent of the reach, we can focus our patrols better. Is everyone on board with that?”  
  
They all nodded shortly in agreement.  
  
“Are the hotspots acting like normal or is all the activity centered around these new ones?” Marco ventured the question when Armin didn’t immediately jump back into his explanation.  
  
“The hotspots are letting through the usual amount of Titans,” Reiner supplied, “nothing out of the ordinary for Trost. But with the additional activity, it’s too much for six of us to cover. That’s why we sent in a request for backup. The Garrison is tied up with a lot of home affairs, so the request got forwarded to Survey…hence you got shipped out.”  
  
Marco couldn’t help wondering whether sending in one warrior for backup would remedy the situation. Certainly, he’d been in the top ten of the graduates of the 104 th, and was known for his ability to coordinate with just about anyone in battle, but it was a great deal of ground to cover.

“Home affairs?” Eren scratched at his nose, frowning. “You didn’t mention that before.”

The pair flinched in perfect unison.  
  
“Well…it’s very hush-hush, yeah?” Reiner replied uncomfortably.  
  
“ _Was_ hush-hush,” Berthodlt muttered, casting a long-suffering look to the ceiling.  
  
The insistent tap of Mikasa’s fingers on the tabletop brought them back to attention. She raised her brows at them slightly, disapproval clear in her dark eyes. “Armin wasn’t finished, _gentlemen._ ”

A soft chorus of apologies went around the table, all of which Armin waved away, although not before resting a grateful hand on her shoulder.  
  
“To continue. Each pseudo-hotspot has shown up without warning. We don’t know it’s there until the Titans burst through. There have been, unfortunately, some casualties. We were lucky, yesterday, that we were so close by when the latest sprang up. All the disappearances are stirring up the locals, but there’s not much we can do about that.” Armin let out an uneven breath. “So far, none of the pseudo-hotspots has let through any more Titans once the initial group gets through. I don’t think we can count on that as fact though if we take into account how quickly the last few sprang up.”  
  
Bertholdt cleared his throat a little, shoulders shrinking in on himself once their attention was directed towards him. The long fingers of his left hand curled around the opposite forearm. Presumably, from the sheen of sweat on his skin, it was the arm he lost in his most recent battle.  
  
“They…they seem smarter,” he said carefully, dark eyes flicking to Reiner and back down to the table. “More…organized, somehow. I thought it might just be a fluke but then when Mikasa called…I know Survey sees more field action than the Garrison. Have you ever seen this before?”  
  
“Never. I sent out a message to Major Hanji and her squad, but until we hear back, we’re flying blind, so to speak.” Armin leaned back from the map, letting the edge furl back up. At his side Eren snorted, leaning back with folded arms and an angry sneer distorting his features.  
  
“As if the normal Titans weren’t enough,” he spat out. Mikasa inclined her head a bit but nudged her brother with an elbow so he uncrossed his arms.  
  
The ghastly sound of the door opening made their heads whip around.  
  
Marco felt a cold shiver go through his veins as he turned in his chair.  
  
Annie.  
  
Still small, still radiating danger. It was like staring at an image from his memories made into flesh.  
  
“Yo,” she said casually, striding into the kitchen. She barely looked at Marco as she swung herself up onto the counter rather than join them at the table, perching at the edge and gazing down at them. Marco wasn’t fooled. He could feel her looking even though she wasn’t _looking._ “I miss much?”  
  
“Not terribly much,” Armin said with a tight smile. “It’s good to see you, Annie.”  
  
Annie inclined her head in acknowledgement.  
  
“We’ve confirmed the Titans are getting smarter, but there’s not much we can do until we get word from Major Hanji.” Reiner lobbed the last bagel towards her and she caught it—out of reflex more than desire to eat it, judging from the way she set immediately dropped it to the counter and wiped her fingers on her pants.  
  
“So we’re fucked,” Annie observed tactfully. Mikasa narrowed her eyes, jaw tight and held aggressively high.  
  
“It’s not as bad as that,” Bertholdt said anxiously. “Marco’s here now, so we should be able to handle things better.”  
  
Annie didn’t reply to that, which was more telling than anything. Thankfully, Reiner being himself, immediately filled the tense silence with chatter about redistributing patrols and setting up contact times for each day. Marco only paid half-attention to the resulting conversation that broke out around the table, his gaze always drawn back to the petite blonde looming nearby. Apprehension made his chest tight. He’d never been able to read her well, even when they worked together in the Military Police, and now that it had been so long, her face may was well have been made from her trademark crystal skin for all he could read from it. Slowly, her eyes panned to him, and even more slowly, Annie slid down from her perch.  
  
An invitation. Maybe.  
  
Marco stood just as slowly and made his way over.  
  
“How was the patrol?” was his opening line, anything else too personal to try out.  
  
“Quiet,” she replied shortly.  
  
“Well, that’s good!”  
  
The false cheer in his voice made him internally cringe, but it caused a flicker of something to pass over Annie’s face, the lines around her eyes crinkling like she might actually smile. When Marco was younger—more naïve, more filled with idealistic dreams—he had often faked good moods to help himself push through the days of training. The idealism had yet to fade, although he was significantly more disillusioned about many of the things he once believed. But while he remained plenty optimistic and made an effort to be pleasant, he didn’t fake it anymore. Life was too short or it wasn’t worth the effort or there were bigger things to worry about. Literally, bigger things.  
  
The different sentiments all boiled down to the same result in the end. Marco was more confident he could persevere even lacking happiness.  
  
“Well, it’s not bad,” she agreed neutrally.  
  
“Your hair got longer,” he commented after a long moment, testing the waters. She still wore it pulled back sloppily, bangs hanging in her face.  
  
“You got taller,” she said in her usual monotone. Marco glanced down, only able to see the slope of her nose and the flash of one eye fixed on the others still talking at the table. Marco mimicked her posture, leaning back against the counter with folded arms.  
  
“I haven’t grown in a while, actually.”  
  
“You have since I saw you last.”  
  
Her words weren’t sharp, because Annie was never sharp. She exhibited an amount of control that Marco could never hope to achieve, remaining as cold and unperturbed in her personal life as she did in battle. Her words weren’t sharp, but they crashed into his chest with all the force of one of her punches. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable conversation he had been dreading, when the woman snorted, turning her face to him.  
  
“It’s okay, you know.” She lifted one eyebrow. “We’re cool. So you can stop acting like I might murder you if you look at me too long.”  
  
 _Oh._  
  
“So you’re not…upset? About what happened…back then.”  
  
Annie uncrossed her arms and shoved her hands into the front pocket of her white hoodie, tipping her head back with a slow exhale. “Three years is a long time to stay upset about something.”  
  
It wasn’t exactly an answer, but Annie wasn’t the straightforward type.  
  
“Annie, you know that I—”  
  
“I said we’re cool, didn’t I? We’ve all got our shit to deal with. I’m sure the Survey Corps warned you to keep an eye out for me anyway.”  
  
“Should I?” Marco asked warily. Whatever her answer was, he knew that he would be keeping a certain distance, despite the uncomfortable truce they seemed to be coming to. Annie deliberately flicked her eyes over to him, exuding an attitude of ‘what do you think?’ without the benefit of him being able to read what it was he was supposed to be thinking. He smiled, hesitant, and she looked away as Reiner called out to her.  
  
“Look, I’m not expecting us to be friends again. I’d just like for us to work well together, even if only for this assignment,” he said in an undertone when she remained where she was.  
  
“How unlike you,” she murmured. “Weren’t you the one always trying to be friends with every person who crossed your path back in the day?”  
  
“Not every person. Anyway, that was then.”  
  
Annie hummed noncommittally. “Well. If you don’t want to be friends—”  
  
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to be, I just don’t expect it.”  
  
She fixed him with a pointed look, obviously unimpressed at his interruption. “I’m offering a polite working relationship. Stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. When this is over, maybe you can come visit me in the capitol. Maybe we can talk through some things. Figure out our particular shit.”  
  
Marco wanted to agree right away, but he held his peace for a solid minute, turning over his words in his mind, remembering Levi’s warning about trusting the Military Police again. There was no telling how much Annie could have changed in his absence, no telling if she had been affected by the corruption. He liked to think that Annie was untouchable, in that respect. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, the way she wanted to, with no deviation.  
  
“I’d like that. I really would.”  
  
“Then we’re cool.” Annie pushed off from the counter, picking up the abandoned bagel, sparing him a glance over one petite shoulder. “Although I blame you for landing me with Hitch for a partner.”  
  
Marco let out a breathless chuckle to release his tension as Annie walked away. He could picture Hitch only in the vaguest of images, but it was her personality that tended to stick with people more than her looks anyway. And it stuck because it was flat-out _terrible._ It was easy to imagine the horrors those two women must get up to in the capitol. Marco stayed put, observing the interactions of his comrades from afar and letting his mind drift a little.  
  
Things were bad, really bad. There was no pretending that dealing with these new Titans would be easy. Still, Marco had been prepared to die for humanity a long time ago. When he was confident in having his friends at his side and at his back, dying wasn’t so frightening a task. Neither was living. Whatever happened, knowing his friends were there was reason enough to fight. The red of Mikasa’s scarf caught his gaze, the bright swath of fabric a focal point in the motion and the noise.  
  
 _If you don’t fight, you can’t win…right?  
  
_ Marco pushed away from the counter.  
             


 

 

***

 

 

 

Jean grudgingly barricaded himself in the secondary chemical storeroom that saw little to no use during his lunch break with his phone, another can of Monster, and a sandwich Connie had thrown at his head when he left the house that morning. He was going to be a responsible son and call his mother. Tapping his feet restlessly, Jean chewed on his lower lip as he tried to recall the last time he called her of his own volition.  
  
He was going to be a responsible _apologetic_ son.  
  
Taking a fortifying sip of the energy drink, he jabbed at the dial button and pressed the phone to his ear before he could wimp out entirely, cringing at the sweat already building up on the plastic case where his skin touched it.  
  
“Allo?”  
  
Her voice was warm, expectant, but polite rather than motherly. There was no caller identification on her shop phone, after all, and she had yet to replace her cell phone. _  
_  
“Hi, Mom,” he said, his voice tiny in the mostly empty room.  
  
“My Jean boy!” She switched to English immediately, something he was grateful for. He was fluent in French, like the rest of his family, but there were just too many negative memories tied up in the language for him to be comfortable using it very often. “What a nice surprise to hear your voice!”  
  
“Yeah…sorry. Is this an okay time? Should I call later?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jean. Of course I have time for my only son!”  
  
He laughed awkwardly. “How—How’ve you been? How are things at the shop?”  
  
She rambled on for a while, how she was selling her wood carvings at craft fairs, stories about the strange people that came into the café she worked at. Jean gave a few comments, mostly just listening to the familiar sound of her voice and the new thread of joy that was in it these days. He took a bite of the sandwich and tried not to choke. Sunflower butter and honey was not a flavor combination he was inclined to get used to. Since he was alone, he ate it while making a series of grotesque faces at the storeroom shelves.  
  
“But Jean, you have to tell me about yourself! How have you been? Have you found a special someone, hm?”  
  
He flushed automatically, wiping the excess honey on his pants and hoping it wouldn’t show on black fabric. “I-I’m fine, Mom. And you know if I did I would just _tell_ you.”  
  
She sighed, a soft crackling noise through the phone connection. “Jean, I do wish you would settle down.”  
  
“I’m not having kids, like ever—”  
  
“I just want you to be happy,” she interrupted easily, unperturbed as always by his near constant state of irritation. “Lord knows I’d love some grandkids, but all I want is for _my_ kid to be happy. That comes first.”  
  
“I don’t have to be in a relationship to be—”  
  
“No, but it helps. Are you happy, Jean?”  
  
This was why he didn’t call her, Jean realized, holding the Monster can to his chest like it could fill the hollow space between his ribs, like he could use the metal to ward off all the terrible things that happened around him.  
  
“Happy’s pushing it,” he admitted honestly after a moment. There wasn’t much sense in trying to lie about it. And honesty was his _modus operandi_ , most days. “But I’m okay. I’m…things are okay.”  
  
“Jean…”  
  
“Mom, it’s fine. Seriously.”  
  
“You know, Jean. My Jean boy.” She hesitated there, breathless for just an instant and Jean knew—he knew what she was going to say. The same thing she had been saying for a long time, something he should have gotten used to but somehow never did. “You know you’re the one who gave me the courage to leave your father, so I want you to be happy. Such a brave boy deserves happiness.”  
  
Jean wanted to scream. It wasn’t bravery that drove him out of the house after high school, it had been self-preservation. He was happy that his Mom had gotten out, he was happy they had _both_ gotten out, but he could do without the reminders. _I’m not brave,_ he wanted to shout until his blood burned with it and his presumably existent soul shook with it and that she would just see. _I was a coward, I’m a coward, shut up.  
_  
“I know,” was what he said, tiredly. “I’m okay. Really.”  
  
She sighed again, heavier. “And you should leave Trost! That city is no good. You could always come to where I am. We have family here. There are other hospitals you could work at.”  
  
“One day, maybe. I’ve got Connie and Sasha.”  
  
“They won’t always want you living with them, you know, Jean boy. When two people love each other very much, there are certain things—”  
  
“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ , Mom!” he whisper-shrieked in mortification before she could get any further. It wasn’t worth going into the conversation that his friends were both asexual and their ‘certain things’ only went as far as making out. Jean only knew this for a fact because he was positive that if they ever started having sex they would both race to inform him as such, in the same way they raced to send him the newest internet memes on his work email. “I have to go. My break’s almost over.”  
  
The sound of her laughter, even if it was at his expense, was heartening. “Fine, you go work, Jean. Don’t wait so long to call me next time! You should be more thoughtful towards your poor old mother!”  
  
“Yes, Mom.”  
  
“Je t’adore, Jean.”  
  
“Je t'adore, Maman,” he muttered before hanging up. Staring sightlessly at the mostly empty shelves, he tongued at the residual stickiness sticking to the roof of his mouth and thought about what leaving Trost would be like. Why hadn’t leaving occurred to him before? Had the idea been resting in his subconscious and he refused to acknowledge it?  
  
The idea felt…wrong. Not just because he had grown up in Trost, not just because Connie and Sasha were in Trost. It made him feel weirdly light-headed. Jean had the disconcerting sense that some force tied him to Trost, puppet strings running straight to the heart of the city. A potentially murderous, supernatural creature infested city.  
  
Trost was _home._ The word seemed to send tiny shockwaves through him, repeating endlessly. Home, home, home. The light-headedness passed. It was replaced by the creeping, jittery rush of too much caffeine and the looming return of the troubles briefly evaporated by the phone conversation.  
  
The plastic of the sandwich bag crinkled, overly loud, as he crumpled it into his pocket and downed the rest of his drink.  
  
“Jean Kirschtein, you are so full of shit,” he declared, voice echoing slightly off the cold tile. He made sure the door locked behind him, wishing he could leave all his fears in that tiny dark room.

 

 

  
  
  
  
He refrained from scrolling through the internet on his phone during the bus ride home, too nervous of being observed and having some kind of repeat Daz incident. Here, surrounded by people on all sides, the scent of warm skin and the city pressing in on him—here, it all seemed surreal. The disappearances. The angels. All of it. If they existed, why here?  
  
If they existed, why?  
  
Lack of sleep didn’t make him any more of a philosopher than he usually was. Jean had no answers. Only formless questions, running on a continual, jarring loop through his mind.  
  
Jean exited the bus, at once dimly thankful for the comparatively fresh air and reluctant to be alone. Sasha had texted him earlier saying she was helping out with some evening classes at her gym, and Connie had late classes on Thursdays. Maybe he would just eat leftovers. Jean huffed out a sigh, feet crunching on rocks and twigs as he walked across his lawn, shooting a glance towards the neighboring house.  
  
Marco was sitting on the porch steps, long legs crossed neatly at the ankles and leaning back on his arms. Today he was in another grandfatherly sweater, blue this time. It worked for him. Of course, attractive as he was, Marco could wear anything and make it work for him. Pastels even. Jean hesitated, realizing he was staring creepily from the middle of his lawn, torn between going over and fleeing inside.  
  
Marco, apparently having become aware of being watched, turned his head and waved.  
  
“Good afternoon, Jean!” he called, the bright sound of his voice seeming to leave a shining golden trail in the air. Who talked like that these days? Jean gave a strained smile and waved weakly in return.  
  
“Yeah, uh. Same to you.” He couldn’t do this. He could not make cheerful small talk after being so blatantly creepy. But before he could hustle indoors, the man spoke again, not caring that the other neighbors could hear the exchange.  
  
“Just getting off from work?”  
  
“Y-Yeah.” Okay, this was happening apparently. Small talk. Setting his jaw, Jean made his way over to where Marco was sprawled on the porch steps, praying fervently to the god he did not believe in that he didn’t trip.  
  
“I, um. I work up at the hospital,” he finished once they were closer and didn’t have to half-shout in order to be heard. Up close, Marco was even more handsome, exuding serenity and charm. The only Jean probably exuded was sweat.   
  
“Really?” He seemed mildly perplexed, brows lifting. “You’re quite young for a doctor, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’m just a lab technician,” Jean clarified, flushing a little.  
  
Marco hummed, tilting his head a little before sheepishly smiling. “I have no idea what that is,” he confessed.  
  
“Basically I run tests on blood and other stuff to see if there’s any weirdness. Not that interesting of a job.”  
  
“Sounds pretty important to me!”  
  
“I-It’s…I guess? Pretty much anyone can learn to do it, so it’s not anything special.”  
  
Jean leaned against the warped railing, trying to appear less awkward than he felt under his attentive gaze. Even though Marco’s features leant him a naturally serious air, the relaxed line of his mouth cut the severity.  
  
“So,” he ventured, picking imaginary lint from his clothes and wishing that his wardrobe consisted of more than his scrubs, fraying jeans, old t-shirts, and hoodies, “are you, uh, in the same line of work as your friends?”  
  
Marco’s gaze lidded, considering, his hands flexing slightly against the porch. “We all work together, yes,” was his eventual response.  
  
 _Now or never, Kirschtein. You won’t rest until you know if this guy cuts up other guys for a living.  
  
And if he does cut up other guys for a living?  
  
_ Jean wanted to curse at that tiny voice of pessimism. _Shut the hell up. Everyone needs to make a living somehow.  
  
Oh, so it’s forgivable because he’s hot, huh. I think you need some new standards. Or any standards, actually.  
  
I think I just need to stop having conversations with myself.  
  
_ “They, uh. Never did say what that line of work was, exactly.”  
  
“Didn’t they.” Marco seemed amused by Jean’s nerves, leaning his head back and exposing the graceful length of his neck. Jean swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes from the sight. There was a trail of freckles that—and he had to grip the railing, splinters be damned, to physically stop himself from leaning closer—curved down his skin to the hollow space of his throat. Jean was vaguely aware that yes, it was bad if he got this wound up over a little _neck_ , but to be fair—it was a good neck. It was a good everything.  
  
And he clearly hadn’t been holding the rail well enough, as Jean found his lean turn into a slipping fall that had him resigned to cracking his face open on the steps.  
  
He didn’t. Crack his face open, that is.  
  
He was instead firmly caught by a pair of well-muscled arms, forehead striking against abdominal muscles instead of unforgiving wood. His knees did hit against the steps painfully, but it was difficult to focus on that pain when his proximity to Marco was essential _zero space between us, holy shit._  
  
“Are you okay, Jean?”  
  
The sound of Marco’s genuinely concerned voice reverberated through him, sending tingles through his belly. _Holy. Shit._ Jean was completely frozen for a few moments before he made an attempt to extricate himself from this highly embarrassing position. Rather than let him scramble up and far, far away, Marco gently—but rather insistently—guided him into sitting next to him.  
  
“Are you hurt?” he asked, and Christ, those brown eyes up close were a wonder, puppy dog bright and framed by long dark lashes. “Jean?”  
  
“I-I’m fine!” he spluttered out, very conscious of the fact that Marco had yet to fully release his arms. “I mean, hah, I may have broken my nose on your abs, but I’m fine!”  
  
His mouth upturned in a soft smile that made Jean’s stomach clench. If he had been flushing before, he was positive his entire body was one huge blush now.  
  
“I’m pretty sure my abs aren’t quite _that_ hard.”  
  
“I think you should really re-evaluate that assessment. Have you even ever felt your own abs? Like seriously, only person I know with abs like that is my friend Sasha, and she basically works out for a living.” Jean clamped his mouth shut abruptly, aware that he was starting to ramble in his panic to assert that he wasn’t a total weirdo. The other man’s smile widened, scrunching up his freckled cheeks.  
  
 _Cute. Fuck you, Marco, you can’t be hot_ and _cute. That’s…that’s illegal, right? Definitely should be illegal.  
  
_ “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment, in that case.” Marco let go of his arms at last, settling back into a more relaxed pose without taking his eyes off Jean. “Security,” he said, as if it was supposed to mean something.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That’s our line of work. Private security.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
It explained the odd hours, maybe. The abs, definitely. And the blood? Just who were they protecting? It was rare—actually, he couldn’t think of a time when any VIP ever showed up in Trost. Did private security work for gangs? Worse, was private security some kind of slang for shady-as-fuck bodyguard? But Marco was already continuing.  
  
“Don’t let me keep you, by the way, Jean. I just wanted to say hello, since I’m new here.”  
  
Jean snorted. “You’re not keeping me from anything. My housemates have got late nights, so I’m on my own. Are you…not working today?”  
  
“We don’t need to be out there all at the same time, generally,” was his light comment. The tone of his voice had some edge to it, hinting that Marco really wasn’t comfortable discussing his work. Jean bit his lip and reined in his curiosity for another time.  
  
“Guess I should go change and get dinner though.”  
  
Marco laughed, a soft and understated sound, rubbing a finger beneath his nose. “You should just stay for dinner, since you’re on your own too, Jean.”  
  
His name rolled off the other man’s tongue like he was born to say it. It took a few moments before Jean realized that Marco had issued a serious invitation and that he should probably reply.  
  
“D-Do you—I mean, don’t feel like, _obligated_ just because I’m loitering on your porch—”  
  
“Jean,” Marco interrupted, not quite touching him but shifting his weight in a way that felt like the taller man was suddenly in his personal space. It wasn’t threatening—he wasn’t looming, like some tall people did. He was just…there, a solid warmth. A very attractive solid warmth. “Please stay for dinner.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jean breathlessly agreed, heart fluttering helplessly, _idiotically¸_ in his chest. It wasn’t a date, for Christ’s sake, he probably just bored and wanted some company.  
  
“I should perhaps mention I’m not the most creative of cooks.”  
  
“If you’ve got eggs, I can help,” Jean blurted out, earning himself a raised eyebrow. “I—I’m good at cooking eggs.”  
  
“I honestly have no idea what we have. Let’s go find out, shall we?” Marco stood with fluid grace and courteously offered Jean his hand. Jean swallowed hard and took it, almost yelping in surprise when Marco pulled him to his feet with no apparent effort involved. The pressure against his palm did make him wince; splinters, probably.  
  
“You’re hurt?” Marco stepped immediately closer, flipping over his hand to inspect it and ducking his head to get a better look. Close enough to feel the heat of his body like it was a tangible thing—it was unnatural, to be that warm, surely—and close enough to smell him. His breath smelled vaguely of too-sweet chocolate and there was something oddly metallic about his general scent, but there was also something softer that reminded Jean of the pet lovebirds he had growing up. “You should have said so earlier, Jean,” he chastised, voice darker than before.  
  
“J-Just some splinters,” he managed to stammer out, feeling sweat start to form even though it was pleasantly cool. What kind of aura was that? What was with the sudden tension here? “Not a big deal.”  
  
Marco’s eyes flicked up to him from his hand and Jean sucked in a breath at the intensity of that gaze. It wasn’t _angry_ exactly, but the tightly controlled force took him aback. Apparently Marco wasn’t as calm as he acted.  
  
“It could get infected.” Marco’s voice was even, perfectly modulated in a way that sent the bad kind of shivers down Jean’s spine. His gaze drifted down, long fingers pressing delicately at the spots where the wood had driven into his skin. Almost speaking to himself, Marco murmured, “Humans are so fragile.”  
  
With a shaky laugh, Jean couldn’t help commenting. “As opposed to what?”  
  
“Lizards.”  
  
The response was almost immediate and so seriously delivered that Jean was stunned into silence for several beats. Marco dropped his hand, straightening up, a faint flush coloring his skin. Jean was the one who broke the silence, spluttering out a fit of laughter that Marco grudgingly reciprocated, although his laughter was far more refined, sans snorting.  
  
“O-Oh my _god, dude_ —lizards—what the—what the fuck—”  
  
He was having trouble breathing. It wasn’t even that funny, but with the weird tension that had been rising, the sudden release felt almost cathartic.  
  
“I’m serious!” Marco chuckled behind one hand, obviously trying to gather his composure and failing. “Lizards are very hardy animals. They can grow back their tails!”  
  
“Yeah, Marco,” Jean wiped at his eyes, snickering, “when the day of reckoning comes, the lizards will be the ones that survive and take over.”  
  
“Anything is possible!”  
  
“Anything but _that_.” Jean grinned, unspeakably relieved that Marco was, in fact, a giant nerd. Even if he was ‘private security’, the nerd factor made him a lot more approachable. Plus, his smile was beautiful. That was definitely a contributing factor.  
  
Marco _tsked_ softly. “Such a skeptic. Youth is all about believing the impossible.” He made a gesture towards the door. “Come on inside, Jean. We’ll fix you up and see about dinner.”  
  
Jean followed after him without argument, though not without a snide remark about how it was only old men who spoke about things like youth. He did wish, once they were in the bathroom, Marco bent over his hand with a pair of tweezers, that he wasn’t still wearing his hospital scrubs. No helping that. To distract himself, Jean let his eyes wander over the faint puckering of scar tissue on the right side of his face.  
  
It was only noticeable up close and if Jean wasn’t so hell-bent on leaving a good impression on Marco, he’d probably just bluntly ask what had happened. It didn’t look like a burn scar—more like something had forcefully torn the skin away. Jean decided not to think about that. He focused on the even part of Marco’s hair instead. Once the last splinter was pulled and Marco had meticulously cleaned out the resulting wounds, insistent that he place a bandage over one of the bigger ones, he straightened with a sigh.  
  
“There,” he said, satisfied.  
  
“T-Thanks,” Jean muttered, wriggling his fingers a little and trying not to be hyper-aware of every breath Marco took or how little effort it would take to reach out and touch that tantalizing stretch of collarbone. Or how staying together in that bathroom would devolve him even further into a hormonal teenager.  
  
“So, dinner?” The other man finally moved out of his space, leading the way back down the creaking stairs into the kitchen. The house layout was very similar to Jean’s but he still took his time following Marco, glancing at the furniture as if it would answer some of the questions he had about his mysterious neighbors. It didn’t, although he was amazed at the sheer number of books stacked on and around their coffee table. And their extraordinary lack of taste in selecting upholstery colors.

“The kitchen’s just through here,” Marco was saying as they moved past the front door.  “Like I said, I’m not sure what we’ll find.”

After a moment of deliberation, Jean abandoned his scrubs top, throwing it by his shoes, straightening his ratty white undershirt self-consciously before joining Marco where he was gazing pensively into the refrigerator. There were three cases of cream soda next to the fridge, which was still a shock even after having had the privilege of riding with Eren and Armin’s groceries.  
  
“Good news! We have eggs. And some other things…do you like omelets?”  
  
“Hell yeah, I like omelets.”  
  
Marco smiled and began digging through the fridge for the ingredients he wanted.  
  
“I’ve got to ask,” Jean said, tapping his toes against the floor and Marco hummed questioningly in response. “Are you guys seriously going to drink all that soda?”  


“Ah. Well, I personally don’t drink it.” He handed Jean a red pepper, half an onion, and an opened bag of spinach, which he took and placed on what looked like the cleanest spot on the counter. He opened a few cupboards, searching for a cutting board. He didn’t find one, but he did manage to locate a frying pan and a bowl. “But Eren and Mikasa love it. They’ll drink it all, no problem.”  
  
“That seems…excessive.” Like, really fucking excessive. And unfair. No one should be able to drink that many sugary drinks and still be that fit.  
  
“We all have our vices.”  
  
“Even you?”  
  
 _Oh shit._ Jean hadn’t meant to say that aloud. The other man closed the fridge, carton of eggs in one hand and milk in the other, straightening to his full height. A small line had appeared between his brows, at odds with the tiny smile curving his lips.  
  
“Even me, Jean. I’m no angel.”  
  
Jean bit back the more than half-serious _could have fooled me_ and grabbed the eggs from Marco’s hands before he could embarrass himself further. Marco moved past him as he began cracking eggs into the bowl, pulling down two plates and a cutting board from one of the top shelves.  
  
It was companionable. Not at all like a date, Jean tried to convince himself, as they continued a bantering exchange. The guy was probably straight, Jean tried to convince himself, which was near impossible with the way Marco’s eyes kept falling on him, full of light even when he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t usually get this way with people—it took him a long to warm up to them. Sure, he was capable of straight out lusting after someone, but this was more than that. He…shit, he wanted to be friends. He felt like they could be friends.  
  
The great thing about omelets was they didn’t take much time at all to make once you had all the ingredients prepped.  
  
“I should really be making them,” Marco argued, trying to reach for the spatula that Jean quickly held out of reach behind his back with a scowl. “You’re a guest! You shouldn’t be working.”  
  
“You already played nurse for me, least I can do is make you dinner. ‘Sides, I _know_ I won’t fuck this up. You on the other hand, are an unknown variable. I won’t have you burning my eggs.” Jean frowned, looking at oil heating in the frying pan to avoid his earnest expression. “Or your eggs, I should say.”  
  
Marco relented with a sigh, leaning one hip against the counter, watching him cook. After a moment of silence, he reached for the hem of his blue sweater and to Jean’s astonished delight and horror, dragged it off over his head.  
  
“Whoa, what are you—”  
  
“You’ve got goosebumps. Mikasa mentioned that the heat’s out for some reason.”  
  
Jean hadn’t noticed. Mainly because he was too busy noticing how even more attractive Marco was with mussed up hair and the plain black t-shirt he had on underneath that dumb sweater. The universe should never allow Marco to wear sweaters again, ever, because _damn_.  
  
“Here, put it on. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”  
  
“A cold—what are you, my mother? I’m—I’m fucking fine—”  
  
“Jean, please. If you got sick I’d never forgive myself.” He held out the sweater imploringly. There was that intense look again. Jean growled and snatched the sweater from his outstretched hands, pulling it on roughly.  
  
“There, happy?” If his face turned any redder, he might literally explode. Marco just smiled and murmured something about setting the table, finally leaving him in peace to finish the stupid omelets. It hung loose on him and he had to shove the sleeves up in a huff. When he was certain Marco had his back turned, he sniffed the soft wool, stomach full of thrice-damned butterflies like he was sixteen years old all over again.  
  
“I’m tougher than any shitty ass lizard,” he muttered under his breath, startled when Marco laughed, much closer by than he expected.  
  
“How do you figure that?” he teased.

Jean quickly looked down at the pan, sliding the first omelet onto the plate and shoving it into Marco’s hands with more force than was strictly necessary.  
  
“For one thing, I could step on most lizards.” Clearing his throat loudly, he poured the rest of the egg mixture into the pan to make his own omelet. “You should eat that before it gets cold. I make good eggs, but even I can’t make cold ones taste good.”  
  
“I’ll wait. We’re having dinner _together_. It’s a little counterproductive if I start without you.” Marco left his plate on the counter next to Jean’s empty one, going to fetch the empty glasses he had set out on the table. The movement of the displaced air on Jean’s neck made him shiver a tiny bit. He liked the way Marco said _together._ It had a nice ring. “Is water fine with you? Perhaps I can interest you in a cream soda?”

Jean snorted. “Fuck that, man. Water’s fine.”  
  
When they were both sitting at the table eating—Marco complimented his cooking with genuine enthusiasm—it was easy to carry on a light conversation. Just like when he talked to his mom earlier that day, his troubled thoughts were easily forgotten when Marco smiled or laughed or…anything. It sure beat hanging out alone in his room with leftovers and a spider he still had yet to kill.  
  
Marco walked him to the door once Jean caught sight of the time a few hours later. He had work the next morning, unfortunately, and if he wanted to grab a shower before Sasha and Connie got home and used all the hot water, he should probably go.  
  
“Thanks for staying, Jean. I really enjoyed your company.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” He stamped his feet a little to settle them in his shoes, avoiding looking into those soft brown eyes. “Likewise. Here, your sweater—” Jean started to pull up the hem only to have his hands caught by Marco’s. His skin was so warm. And touching his. Again. Okay.

“It’s colder with the sun down. You can bring it back another time.” At least Marco seemed as equally flustered, pulling back his touch quickly and rubbing a finger beneath his nose. “That is…I don’t mean to presume. But I’d like to see you again.”

Jean swallowed hard, eyes wide, frozen in place by the warm phantom touch on his hands. As he was apt to do when his brain was threatening to short-circuit, he spat out the first snide remark that came to mind. “We’re neighbors. Seeing each other is kind of unavoidable.”

The other man fixed him with an unamused look but the tension was suddenly gone from his shoulders. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.

“Maybe next time you should come to my place?” Jean said in a rush, praying the dim light of the entry hall hid how red his face was. Marco’s face brightened with a slow smile. “I’ll cook you something that isn’t an omelet.”

“I’d like that. Although I’ve got nothing against your omelets.”

He couldn’t help the smile that grew on his face, mirroring the other man’s expression. “Cool. I’ll, um. I’ll see you later then.”

“Good night, Jean.”

Jean ducked out of the house and fast-walked across the lawn to his house, glancing back once he was on the porch. Marco was standing by the door, watching. That was a little irritating because Jean knew how to take care of himself, more or less. It wasn’t like much could happen over that short a distance. But it was also nice. Knowing that he cared.

Aware that he was staring again, Jean waved, fumbled with the lock, and slammed the door shut behind him.

It had been a good day. Exhaling slowly, Jean leaned back against the door, burying his face in the sweater and breathing in the soft scent of Marco’s skin. He smiled behind the safety of the fabric.

A very good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Sorry that it's been so long between updates! I had a lot of personal stuff come up, which meant my writing got pushed to the back burner. But it's summer...so I should have more time to write. This is a longer chapter, so hopefully that makes up for my absence a little!
> 
> (also tiny unimportant side-note I actually really love Hitch as a side character but you've got to admit she's kind of an asshole.)


	4. By the Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warriors protect the city. Marco worries about separating his job and his emotions. Jean has 99 problems, and his hot and objectively creepy neighbor is probably 90 of them. Nosy best friends are pretty good to have around.

A spray of blood and a burst of fumes nearly blinded him and he launched to the side to avoid the mangled, toppling body. He narrowly avoided getting clipped by Mikasa’s enormous wings as she dived, rising only when the head separated from her target’s body.  
  
“Two on your right!” Marco yelled, already pushing his legs into motion. The muscles were tight, as was his chest. He never took his eyes from his next target, a two meter class, but made sure the still-open portal never left his peripherals. “And more coming!”  
  
She yelled as she fought, pure focused aggression. His ears were ringing with the sound of her voice rising above the Titans’ roars and his own blood pounding.  
  
Marco used his forward momentum to kick the Titan in the chest, knocking it back before he swung around and smashed its head into the side of the rusting dumpster. The stench brought up the desire to gag but Marco just yanked the nerves from the creature’s neck, and rolled awkwardly to the side as another leaped at him.  
  
“Get in the air!” Mikasa was calling out, breathless but steady. “Marco!”  
  
He tasted blood—maybe his own, maybe not—and shouted as the Titan latched its stony teeth around his knee. It couldn’t break through the hardened armor plating of his full transformation but that didn’t stop the pain. Marco kicked with his free leg, smashing through the orbital bone and splattering vitreous fluid and blood. It did nothing to slow the Titan but it did loosen its hold. Marco grabbed a loose fragment of bone and jammed it straight into the neck.  
  
“Marco, get in the air! Now!”  
  
“I’m—” he shoved away from the decomposing corpse and broke into a run, unfurling his wings and _jumping_ “—working on it!”  
  
It was a struggle to get in the air, his muscles already begging for respite and there being little space to maneuver. But with all three sets he managed, roughly hovering a good distance away from Mikasa to avoid any entanglements. Her wings, black and grey on the surface, were a soft white on the underside, and made no sound as they flapped. Just the one set, but they were abnormally large.  
  
“They just keep coming.” At least this was one of the usual hotspots, not situated near any heavily populated areas of the city. Marco wiped his face ineffectually with his upper arm since his hands were red and slick. He refused to focus on it. _Calm down._  
  
“Portal can’t stay open too much longer,” Mikasa said, dark eyes roving over the scene below. Her eyes were nothing but black, no white sclera to contrast against—but Marco was used to the sight. It wasn’t like he was much of a pretty face. Six Titans left, all three meter class. One was attempting to climb the building next to the ugly giant of a dumpster, while the others skulked towards the main road, questing after the scent of living human flesh. “I’ll head off the group. You take out the climber.”  
  
Marco nodded, already rising higher in preparation for the dive. There wasn’t much airflow this close to the ground and he didn’t know how much more energy he could spare for continued flight. Even Mikasa seemed to be feeling the strain, mouth tight and her regeneration running slow. Blood trickled slow from a nasty bite on her left shoulder.  
  
“I’ll join you when I’m done,” he assured her and she saluted. Her transformation, as far as transformations went, wasn’t bad to look at. Her armored skin took on the soft monochrome coloration of her wings, the exposed red muscles as bright a flash of red as her scarf. Although she didn’t seem outwardly concerned, Mikasa said one thing before speeding away on those silent wings.  
  
“I’m counting on you.”  
  
Marco dived.  
  
Maybe he wasn’t the fastest, maybe he wasn’t the strongest, but he was agile.  
  
It was easy to aim right for the neck with the Titan so preoccupied with scaling the bricks, his fist plunging straight through flesh and muscle to the soft nerves, ripping it apart. Using the corpse as an anchoring weight—trying not to inhale the fumes as it rotted away in his hands—Marco flung himself towards the back of the group. The dead Titan hit the corner of the dumpster and building and burst like an overripe fruit, slimy grey and pink organs and foul blood splattering out.  
  
The noise prompted the two Titans at the back of the group to turn and face him but Marco didn’t slow his charge. Wings curled in a tight, Marco smashed into them with his full weight, knocking them back several meters. One meaty hand grasped at his legs, but Marco still had enough momentum going to _twist_ —and the soft flesh of its arm snapped away from the Titan’s body, broken and useless. More blood. He could see Mikasa dancing, still airborne, at the corner of his vision.  
  
Bending his knees to soften the impact of his hurried landing, Marco hopped to rebalance his weight, blocking the second Titan’s attack with his forearms. Swinging his leg into its side was more instinctual than planned. He pivoted with the movement. Break the jaw, go for the neck. The scrabbling fingers of the fallen one-armed Titan managed to find purchase and dug into the exposed muscles of his leg. Marco _screamed_ through his clenched teeth, wrenching apart the Titan in his hands as pain rocketed up his leg and spine.  
  
His right leg.  
 _  
No you don’t._  
  
Just as the creature’s teeth scraped against his plated skin, Marco brought his foot down on its elbow with a sickening crunch, followed by a spray of blood as the bones broke through its skin. The hand dropped free of his leg but the teeth only dug in harder.  
  
“Marco!”  
  
 “Down here!” Marco yelled even though he barely had the breath to do so. Panting, Marco took steady aim with his elbow. “Hold still for me, okay?” he muttered hoarsely. The Titan was too busy trying to eat him to avoid the blow to its temple that knocked its grip loose entirely. Before it could attempt another attack, Marco smashed its skull against the pavement and tore the fragile white nerves free.  
  
The other three were down already. Survey taught efficiency above all else. The poison fumes were clouding the air. Marco coughed and turned his head back to the portal, already stumbling to his feet and moving in that direction. Another Titan was coming through, appearing from the pulsating rift, a nightmare clawing its way out from the dark. Mikasa flew over his head.  
  
The Titan never stood a chance.  
  
Mikasa tore its neck to fleshy shreds with cold precision and the thing fell back into the closing rift with a garbled cry. She landed in a smooth crouch, keeping her wings fanned out aggressively. They both watched, tensed for more battle, until the portal swallowed itself back up and disappeared, the misshapen air snapping back to reality.  
  
With a relieved sigh, Marco limped over to her and she folded her wings back to accommodate his approach, straightening up.  
  
“Sound off,” he said softly.  
  
“Here,” she returned, just as soft. “Your leg?”  
  
“Nothing serious. What about you?”  
  
She rolled her shoulder, finally tearing her gaze away from where the hotspot had been. “Already fine. We should leave. If more show up elsewhere, we need to be prepared.”  
 _  
All business as usual._ Marco murmured his agreement and headed over to where they had dropped their patrol bags—containing a change of clothes, their communicators, other various things that they might need. _Well, it’s not like I hate that part of her.  
  
_ When he transformed back into his soft human form, it took a moment before he could move. The pain burned deep, particularly the space where his wings had been. He felt both too light and too heavy, and the dissonance sparked more pain in his head. Marco shook it off, controlling his breathing to steady himself, and wiped off the worst of the mess with a scratchy towel that quickly stained dark and damp.  
  
They pulled on new shirts in silence and headed out.

 

  
  
  
  
By the time Mikasa and Marco finished their patrol route at noon, they hadn’t encountered anything else beyond the citizens of Trost walking the streets. Aside from a few strange looks that Marco chalked up to the way they moved like soldiers, they had successfully passed as ordinary humans. They gratefully returned to their temporary home and reported the activity that had occurred to their awaiting friends.  
  
Lingering in the entryway under the pretense of removing his shoes, Marco closed his eyes, allowing himself at last to let the thoughts stewing at the back of his mind to come forward. _Humans are so fragile. What was I thinking, saying that?_ He hadn’t been thinking. The words had just slipped out, seeing the tiny pieces of wood jammed beneath Jean’s skin. Such small wounds—if even they could be called wounds—would have healed for Marco in less time than it took to breathe. He was damn lucky Jean hadn’t thought anything of the statement, accepting his idiotic ‘lizards’ response without batting an eyelid.  
  
He hadn’t been thinking. That was the sort of thing that could get him killed in the field.  
 _  
This. This is exactly why we’re warned off getting involved with civilians. It’s one thing to be aware of who we are protecting, and another to be able to put names to faces.  
  
Sorry, Corporal. Pretty sure I’m well on my way to fucking this up._  
  
“Marco, do you—whoa, you okay?” Eren’s voice switched from irritation to concern immediately, stepping over to him quickly and placing a hand on his shoulder. Tentative but solid. Marco quickly pushed himself up straight and nodded, gathering his composure.  
  
“I’m fine, Eren. Just a bit tired, I think.”  
  
“Yeah, Mikasa said it was a little rough out there.” Eren adjusted himself so he stood between him and their other two companions who were still talking by the stairs. Marco almost laughed at Mikasa’s assessment of ‘a little rough’ before reassessing the battle and realizing that it was more or less an accurate statement, for Trost.  
  
“Hey, are you seriously okay? Was seeing Annie again too much? Armin mentioned you two didn’t exactly part as friends, so—”  
  
Marco ruffled his hair with a tight smile, causing Eren to grimace and bat his hand away. “I’m okay,” he assured him. “Really. I’ll work things out with Annie on my own time, so don’t _you_ worry about that. Keep your head clear on patrol today.”  
  
Eren grumbled an affirmative and left with Armin in tow to take over patrolling.  
  
Marco tossed the bloodied towels in the laundry pile as he waited for Mikasa to get out of the shower. He hadn’t been thinking about Annie, but even though he hadn’t lied to Eren there was a distant twinge of guilt in his chest. Armin had encouraged Marco to do this— _information gathering,_ he had teased. Maybe Marco was too uptight. If last night’s slip up was the result of letting his control loose, he couldn’t fathom why Armin ever thought it was a good idea.  
  
 _Yes you can._  
  
The way Jean had smiled, the way Jean had been so flustered over the smallest things, the way Jean looked wearing his sweater. Conversation had been easy, once they started. Marco’s only friends were Warriors like himself, and it was refreshing to have one that was as far removed from that life as it got.  
  
It would be easier, thinking about Annie. Easier than trying to pretend he didn’t care about his next-door neighbor on a level that was more than wanting to protect a weak, ignorant human. Easier than pretending he was still in control of himself.  
 _  
I_ am _in control._ Marco rubbed the curl of scar tissue near his hip, shivering at the strange sensation touching the near-nerveless patch created. _Not in the way I want to be, but I am._ Instead of further berating himself, he tried to focus on better things. No pseudo-hotspots had popped up yet, today. There had been no debilitating injuries today—and Marco stubbornly kept his hand on the scar when a dark, unwanted memory threatened to rear up, because he had all his limbs right now.  
  
Just standing around staring at bloodstained towels wouldn’t ease this sudden bout of negativity. Marco spun on his heel and went to make hot cocoa. He just needed some sleep, that was all. There was no future for him in the civilian world; this _thing_ with Jean was just relieving stress. Playful. Meaningless. Marco’s future waited for him back at the Survey Corps, just like Levi had promised. All he had to do was survive long enough to see it.  


 

  
  
  
  
It was the small things that Marco envied humans—civilian humans, ones who didn’t know about Warriors and hotspots and Titans. Anything they wore, used, or owned had to be regulation or regulation approved. Which meant no scented soaps, no junk food, and no meritless entertainment, for starters. So when Warriors got sent over the line for missions where they had to blend in with the rest of humanity…well, they were granted a small amount of official leeway, but Erwin tended to let them go a little wilder than the other divisions.  
  
It was one of the few perks of belonging to the division with the highest death count. Fight hard; live harder.  
  
Marco hummed under his breath as he scanned the rows and rows of hand-soap and body wash, a half-full basket of shopping slung over one arm. There were so many options that it was happily overwhelming, and he didn’t even mind the curious glances a few of the other shoppers sent his way when they saw him slowly moving down the line, sniffing at each one experimentally. The bathroom counter at their house was already crowded with different scented soaps, but a few more wouldn’t hurt anything. No one knew how long they would be stationed here, after all.  
  
“Marco?” Armin’s blonde head popped around the corner. “You almost done? Eren and I are heading to the checkout soon.”  
  
“Almost done, yes.” Mikasa had opted to stay at home but Marco had jumped at the opportunity to go shopping for the few things they actually needed, plus a few extras. He spared a smile for his human comrade, laughing inwardly when the two boys walked past and he saw Eren lugging the basket for Armin. It was a comforting sight. Then he finally made his selections on soaps and shampoo, before moving away in search of snacks. He paused when he reached the aisle he wanted though, seeing a familiar scowling visage.  
  
Jean was on his toes, trying and failing to reach a jar of salsa on the top shelf. Both his hoodie—today it was red with black lettering—and the shirt beneath had rode up, exposing a small line of pale skin and hipbone. Marco granted himself five seconds to stare intently before he moved towards him with an easy smile.  
  
“Need some help, short stuff?” he asked cheerily. The other man turned to him with a glare, ready to snap until he saw it was Marco. His hazel eyes went wide before he turned his flushed face away.  
  
“I-I’m not short,” he stumbled over his pretend anger.  
  
“Shorter than me,” Marco pointed out, easily grabbing the salsa and offering it to him. Jean swiped it from his hand, long fingers brushing against his briefly and shoved it into his shopping basket.  
  
“By like a fucking inch! Get over it.” Jean seemed to realize how close Marco was standing and fidgeted nervously as he edged half a step back.  
  
“All right, got me, I just have long arms.” Marco did have long arms, but he was also a good three inches taller. Wisely, he kept that to himself. His neighbor kept frowning as his eyes darted down to Marco’s basket, expression changing to one of incredulity as his lips formed words to himself. “Is something the matter, Jean?”  
  
“What? No.” He flashed a weird smile and ruffled a hand through his hair. “You just didn’t strike me as the ‘crisp golden pear’ kind of guy.”  
  
Marco shrugged. “Might as well use soap that smells nice, right?”  
  
“And uh…orange blossom shampoo…”  
  
“I like oranges.”  
  
“And hot chocolate, apparently,” he said in awe, observing the three boxes of the mix stacked in the basket, lips twitching up in a grin and his flush fading to an attractive blush.  
  
“Guilty as charged.” Marco was slightly embarrassed about the amount of hot chocolate he drank, but it was one of his few indulgences, so he ignored the flickering of shame. “I have a weakness for sweet things.”  
  
“Your vice, huh?”  
  
Marco blinked a few times before that part of their previous conversation came to mind and he smiled. “Yes! You’re probably right about that.”  
  
Jean bobbed his head in understanding, fiddling with the handles of his basket and chewing on his lower lip. Although Marco would have been happy to keep conversing, he knew Armin and Eren were waiting. Nor did he want to keep Jean from his errands.  
  
“The others are waiting, so—”  
  
“About your sweater—”  
  
They both stopped. Jean’s ears were red. Marco gestured for him to continue.  
  
“Uh. I was going to wash it—your sweater. Um, but I didn’t know if it was dryclean only or not so…”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Marco assured him, taking a reluctant step back in preparation to leave. “I can take care of it myself.”  
  
“Right, okay. Just—just one more thing. That is, tomorrow’s the weekend, so I thought if you didn’t have plans, you could stop by for dinner?” he said all in a rush, slightly breathless and not meeting Marco’s eyes. “I mean, you’ll have to put up with Sasha and Connie too, but they’re basically harmless.”  
  
Marco laughed. “I think I could manage that. I’ll have to see how work goes.”  
  
“It’s whatever, man!” Jean gave a strained laugh, ducking his head low and nearly dropping his basket with all the fidgeting he was doing. It was endearing, how nervous he got around him. “Totally casual. No pressure. You can, um, invite the others if you want to. Armin and them.”  
  
“We wouldn’t want to impose—”  
  
“Nah, it’s—the more the merrier, right?” Jean finally looked up, their eyes locking for a brief moment. Marco resisted the urge to touch Jean’s hair or the bright red tips of his ears, or to pull the uneven strings of his sweatshirt straight.  
  
“Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow then.”  
  
“Yeah! Right. See you.”  
  
Marco left the aisle, feeling Jean’s eyes on him the whole time and not bothering to look for any of the snacks he intended to look for. He met up with Eren and Armin, who had a considerably fuller basket of shopping and they went through the checkout line. Marco felt rather subdued despite the enticing dinner offer. The way the patrols were running, Marco knew that he could make it, but he wasn’t sure if he should go over without company if Jean’s housemates were to be in attendance as well.  
  
He was jolted back to reality by Eren’s rising voice as they walked back to the car loaded down with their goods.  
  
“I’m telling you, Armin, if they haven’t gotten back to you by now, you need to get a message through to Moblit!” Eren said irritably, struggling to tighten his ponytail and not drop any of the bags he was carrying. “Or even Levi!”  
  
“First off, Levi occupies a lower position than Hanji. Other than the fact they are friends, he is completely unqualified to issue any kind of rush order. Secondly, I’m telling _you_ to have a little patience,” Armin retorted, his voice perfectly serene as they walked. His hair was in a loose braid that Mikasa had done for him before they left the house. “Hanji and their squad are incredibly busy with requests from all the squads, not just ours. I’m sure they are working as fast as they can.”  
  
“People are dying, Ar!”  
  
“Yes, Eren! That’s what people do. Not just here, but everywhere.” Armin caught one of Eren’s bags as it slipped from his grasp, only to kick the back of his knees and send him stumbling towards the car. “Throwing a fit about it won’t solve anything. And it won’t make Hanji be able to work any faster.”  
  
“I’m not throwing—”  
  
“You most certainly are, Eren.”  
  
“You always say that! I’m legitimately upset about this, okay? How are we supposed to know what to do if Hanji is taking this long?”  
  
“It’s fine to be upset, Eren, I’m not telling you to _not_ be upset. I’m telling you to be patient. Hanji will get to us when they get to us, all right? In the meantime, we have to continue doing our job, same as we always do.”  
  
Marco shook his head at their quibbling, hoping neither of them would try to drag him into it. Eyes scanning the parking lot in a reflexive movement, he caught sight of Jean amidst the scattering of cars a few rows away.  
  
“Jean!”  
  
The name left his lips before Marco truly thought about it, surprised to see him again so quickly. The man startled and turned his way, shoulders high and fingers clenched around the handles of his clearly handmade bags. Eren and Armin fell silent. Now that he had initiated something, he needed a reason for calling out so abruptly.  
  
“Would you like to ride with us?” Marco asked when it became clear that Jean was going to continue standing in silent shock at being addressed halfway across the lot, waiting for him to explain himself. Jean’s head shook.  
  
“Gee, thanks for asking us first, Marco,” Eren muttered.  
  
“Shut up, Eren,” Armin muttered back, elbowing his partner hard enough to elicit a yelp.  
  
“Nah, man—” he cut himself off, looked both ways, and skittered over so he was just one row of mostly empty parking spaces away. The white paint was little more than a vague, broken implication than any real guidance on the dirty concrete. “It’s fine,” Jean continued at a more normal level. “I’ve got my stuff, you guys have…your stuff.” He made a vague gesture at their shopping bags. “I’m catching the bus. It’s fine.”  
  
“The bus?” Marco frowned in concern, taking in the rapidly setting sun and the faint chill entering the air with the approach of night. Trost wasn’t a place you wanted to wander needlessly at night, certainly not alone. “It’s a bit late to travel alone, are you sure you won’t ride with us?”  
  
“Yeah,” his voice sounded oddly strangled and he coughed to clear it. “It’s cool, Marco, I’m good. Thanks, guys.”  
  
“Have a good night!” Armin called out while Eren dove into the passenger seat. Jean waved and continued his walk towards the road. Alone. He was average height, even if he was on the thin side, but staring after his back, Jean looked small. Marco’s nerves sang at him, making him imagine what kinds of things might happen to one small man, alone in the night. One human, defenseless and oblivious to the otherworldly dangers of his city. Marco swallowed, pushing aside the urge to run after him and bodily drag him back to the car.  
  
“Marco? You okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Yes.” He shook his head and closed the trunk. Marco couldn’t drag Jean back, but he could do the next best thing. It would come off as weird, but Marco was certain the other man was already aware that he was _weird._ “Sorry, I’m going after him.”  
  
“What?” Eren was hanging halfway out the window, green eyes quizzical. “Why the hell would you do that?”  
  
“Just a feeling,” Marco said shortly. “Trost is dangerous after dark.”  
  
“Marco, do you not see the giant glowing orb that is the sun? It won’t be completely down for a while—”  
  
“I’m sorry, I just don’t think Jean should be alone.”  
  
“He just said he doesn’t want to ride with us—”  
  
“That’s why I’m taking the bus with him, Eren.”  
  
Marco could feel Armin’s steady gaze from where he stood by the driver’s door, weighing and considering. Trying not to think about what he might read in his expression, Marco glanced his way, waiting for permission.  
  
Armin just shrugged. “I’m the one that encouraged it, so I’m not stopping you if you want to go.”  
  
“What? Encouraged _what_ exactly? Armin, what’s going—” Eren protested, more confused than angry.  


“Later, Eren,” he said with a sigh. “Just be ready to ditch the bus if your comm goes off, Marco.”  
  
“Of course.” That went without saying. Marco touched the pocket he had placed it in. “I’ll see you two back at home.”  
  
He trotted away after Jean’s retreating back, heart pounding a touch too fast.  
  
“Armin, seriously, am I missing something here?”  
  
“I said I’ll tell you later, didn’t I? And stop hanging out the window, you’re not a dog.”  
  
Marco hesitated before calling out again, gazing at the bent slope of Jean’s neck, the cord of his earphones hanging loose around it. The faint breeze ruffled through his already perpetually messy hair. A soft fluttering of affection danced in his chest and Marco swallowed it back. _He’s a human_ , he reminded himself sternly. _You’re just here to protect him. Him and all the others.  
  
Him especially_ , was the traitorous whisper of his heart.  
  
“Hey,” he said, glad he stayed back a few feet when the man whirled around violently, features fixed in an angry scowl and arms lifted like he was planning to assault him with his shopping bags. When he saw Marco, his face blanched and the scowl melted briefly away before returning in full force.  
  
“Marco, I already told you, I’m not—”  
  
“I know,” he lifted his hands placatingly, trying for a smile. “I know, Jean. I just thought you might like some company on the bus instead. It’s dangerous to be alone at night.” _It’s always dangerous here, but I can’t tell you why, Jean._  
  
He blinked, hazel eyes catching the fading light and flashing gold. “Are you…” he dropped his head and barked out a single laugh. “Anyone ever tell you that your persistence is kind of fucking creepy?”  
  
That stung a little, but no more than he expected. “You’re the first.”  
  
Jean peeked up at him and it was an effort not to stare at the bob of his throat as the man swallowed visibly.  
  
“If you prefer, I’ll sit on the opposite side and you can pretend you don’t know me,” Marco offered when Jean continued to fidget uneasily. Up close, the fabric choices of his bags were positively garish, bright colors and playful patterns. It wasn’t something Marco envisioned Jean choosing for himself, so they must belong to one of his housemates.  
  
“Now you’re just being an idiot,” Jean sighed and turned back around, letting Marco fall into step as they headed for the bus stop.  
  
“Want me to carry—”  
  
“ _No_ , Marco. Pretty sure I can handle three bags of groceries.”  
  
“Are you sure, because I don’t mind—”  
  
“Fuck’s sake!” Jean shoved one of the bags—the lime green one with smiling eggplants—into his arms with a huff. “Take that, then. Stop with the fragility shit, Marco, I’m not gonna break.”  
  
He winced internally and his free hand half-rose to touch Jean’s shoulder before he quickly dropped it back to his side. Marco turned his gaze to the horizon, adjusting the handle in his hold. The spread of colors was interrupted by the hulking rise of buildings and the slightest tinge of air pollution. Marco’s footsteps were quiet out of habit, and he felt strangely unreal beside Jean, who strode across the concrete like he intended to eat the city whole, battered once-black Converse a loud declaration of his existence.  
  
“I know,” Marco said quietly. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to offend you.”  
  
“It’s—it’s okay.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and Marco’s attention was drawn to the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes. He had noticed them before, but they seemed even darker today. “Just, you don’t have to be so protective constantly. I’ve lived in Trost my whole life, I know how to handle myself.”  
 _  
Yet if a Titan appeared you would be dead, on your own._ “I’m sorry,” was all he could offer, feeling tense as they reached the bus stop. Other than an elderly woman with a suspiciously heavy-looking cane and another man lighting up a cigarette by the nearby lamppost, they were alone. Trying to be subtle about it, Marco placed himself where he could watch all three of the humans at once. Maybe he was standing a touch too close to Jean, but the other man didn’t make a complaint or move away.  
  
“Probably comes with the territory, huh?” Jean said after a moment, reaching up to grab his earphones and shoved them into his front hoodie pocket, unperturbed by how the cord tangled into a ball as he did so.  
  
“E-Excuse me?”  
  
“The protective thing. Since, you know, security work?”  
  
“Ah, yes. You could say that.” Marco frowned slightly. His shoulder blades were itching again.  
  
“Shit, you really don’t like talking about your work, do you?” Jean muttered with his usual scowl.  
  
Marco blinked. He supposed his reticence probably came across as such. “It’s more that I’m not allowed to talk about my work than anything else,” he replied cautiously. Jean nodded, eyes lifting and locking with his once more, squinting in the fading light.  
  
“Yeah, okay. I won’t bug you about it.”  
  
“You weren’t bugging me! I just…I really can’t say anything.”  
  
Jean nudged him with his elbow. “’S’okay, Marco. Relax. You, um.” His stance shifted, scuffing the toe of his shoes against the pavement. “You seem like you’d be pretty good at all that shit. Protecting someone.”  
  
Marco focused his attention on Jean fully, the fluttering in his chest becoming warmth, like he had stepped into a sudden patch of sun. Like a cat, he wanted to stretch into that warmth and stay in that light for as long as he could. For all that Marco still believed in his ideals, believed in all the good that the Warriors did for humanity, it was a thankless job. The people he protected weren’t exactly lining up to show their appreciation. That was how it was and should be. The best they could aim for was not to die on their missions and not get yelled at by their superior officers. If they were lucky, maybe one day they lived long enough to _become_ one of the superior officers.  
  
Marco didn’t have to force the smile that curled his lips but he did quash the urge to embrace the smaller man who was, by now, eyeing him sideways. “Thank you, Jean. I appreciate you saying that.”  
  
He muttered something unintelligible, gaze snapping away. He then cleared his throat and reached up to yank the hood of his sweatshirt up. It concealed most of his face but not the shaky edge to his voice that Marco could already recognize as false irritation. “That wasn’t invitation for you to continue being protective of _me_. Just to clarify. That shit’s gotta stop, man.”  
  
“Of course, Jean.”  
  
Invitation or not, Marco was under orders to protect the people of Trost. Those people included the one standing next to him. He sighed softly and they waited in companionable quiet for the bus to arrive.  
  
  


 

 

*** 

 

  
  
  
The bus ride was an unwanted exercise in self-restraint.  
  
Marco had, naturally, chosen the seat directly next to his, and really whoever had designed those seats had not designed them with wide-shouldered bodyguards in mind. Their legs knocked together gently with each sway of the bus and Marco’s arm was a constant press against his. Jean tried not to be weird about it. He held very still, chanting a quiet mantra in his head. _I will not jump my new friend. I will not jump my new friend._ That didn’t stop the way he could feel Marco’s leg muscles shifting just beneath his clothes whenever his thigh pressed closer as the bus turned.  
  
“Everything all right?” Marco asked in an undertone, dark eyes roving over the other passengers—not many, small favors—and the passing scenery through the smudged glass of the windows. It was probably another of his weird habits from work, constantly being on guard. Jean hadn’t noticed yesterday, but yesterday they had been in his house, not in public.  
  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jean hissed back, sharper than he meant.  
  
“You’re awfully tense, is all. Are you cold?” The other man glanced at his sweatshirt doubtfully, as though he didn’t believe it could possibly be keeping him warm. Had he been on his own, yes, Jean probably would have been a little cold. Trost buses were far from luxurious, the same designers who had installed too-small plastic seats having decided the good people of the city didn’t need fancy things like working heat. But Marco was throwing off heat like his only purpose in life was to serve as an attractive space heater. “I could give you my sweater.”  
  
“I already have one of your damn sweaters. I’m fine.”  
  
Where the hell did he even get that many old-timey sweaters anyway? Inheritance from his late grandfather? Jean kept that thought to himself, barely. Mostly because he thought Marco might teasingly ask how Jean would like to see him dressed and the answer to that was something along the lines of not dressed and preferably in his bed.  
  
Marco nodded, long fingers playing idly with the handle of the one bag Jean had all but thrown at him earlier. There were a few freckles scattered around his knuckles and even the delicate skin between his fingers. As always, Jean didn’t realize how harsh he sounded until he replayed his last words in his head and ground his teeth from inside the safety of his raised hood.  
  
“Long day,” he eventually got out. “Long week, really. Sorry if I’m pissy.”  
  
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He turned his face slightly and smiled. And oh, shit, their faces were so close. Jean felt about as red as his sweatshirt and quickly looked down at their feet. Marco huffed out a soft noise that might have been a laugh, nudging Jean’s foot very lightly with his own.  
  
 _I will_ not _fucking jump him._ Although all this touchy-feely stuff definitely did bring into question the assumed heterosexuality. Jean wasn’t willing to bank on it, since he knew a fair few hetero guys who were still touchy-feely as hell, but maybe. Just maybe. Jean willed himself to find a position that wasn’t too stiff without obviously leaning against his friend.  
  
They were quiet the rest of the ride to their stop. Marco stood just a beat behind Jean, since he didn’t know the stop, but he did wordlessly move ahead of him to get off first. He gritted his teeth again but let it slide, following him down the steps and onto the pavement of their dark street. The cool air was a relief. The increased space between them was a different kind of relief, from a certain perspective.  
  
“May I ask something?” Marco said as they walked. Whether it was habit or a purposeful thing, Marco stayed just slightly in front of him. Not enough that Jean felt like he was following after him, but enough where Marco was obviously doing it for his safety. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. Jean wanted Marco to be his friend, not his human shield.  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
Maybe they didn’t have slang where he came from. Maybe he was just as old-timey as his stupid sweaters. Jean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, go ahead.”  
  
“Do you always do the shopping alone?”  
 _  
Oh._ Although he didn’t know what he had been expecting him to ask, it certainly wasn’t that question. Jean hefted the bags a little higher. “If I don’t do it alone, Con and—Connie and Sasha usually pick out a ton of things we don’t actually need. Mostly Sasha, actually. Bunch of kids, those two, sometimes.”  
  
Marco hummed thoughtfully. “Eyes bigger than their stomachs?” he queried.  
  
“More like eyes bigger than our budget.” And—thinking of Sash again—sometimes stomachs bigger than their budget too. They had gotten better the past few years, but he was used to doing it alone now to the point that it was almost therapeutic. He wasn’t one to seek out solitude, but alone time was a precious commodity in their house.  
  
“Well, I hope you don’t feel like I was intruding.”  
  
“Intruding? On what, my contributions to the great institution of capitalism?”  
  
He shook his head slightly. “On your space. I know you don’t appreciate being treated like you need to be protected. I am…my work keeps me from being social, most of the time, so I’m not accustomed to separating those parts of my life. If I overstep myself, I apologize.”  
  
Jean nearly came to a full-stop. Their houses were in sight now and there was enough dim light from the one working streetlight that Jean could see Marco’s freckled features scanning the darkness like he was looking for danger. Not in the I-just-heard-a-weird-noise way, but in the I-know-there-is-something-out-there-and-I-intend-to-catch-it way. Which was much more predatory and freaky. Jean wanted to shake the other man and make him snap out of it, but you don’t just go around shaking predators, no matter how friendly they seemed.  
  
Marco had stopped with him reflexively, but now looked back at him, concerned. “Jean?” he said, his light voice pitched low. Maybe it was the lighting and Jean’s sleepless nerves. Or the fact that he had been haunting the supernatural forums, reading on all kinds of horrors. But the scars on his body seemed more obvious, as did the bulk of his body. If Marco wanted, he could kill him, probably. Or make him wish he would just kill him. _And this is the kind of guy I end up being attracted to, huh? Definitely dangerous, potentially murderous. Wonder what that says about me._ “Jean,” he repeated, more concerned, stepping enough into his personal space that he could feel the heat rising off him.  
  
“It’s fine,” he said quickly even though his legs felt as useful as cardboard cutouts. Marco and murderous didn’t exactly fit together. He was…sweet. Sweet as the three boxes of hot chocolate he had bought and his ridiculous scented soaps. He was probably the type that shooed flies out the window instead of squishing them. Jean felt guilty for even thinking about it. He really needed to get some sleep, damn. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You don’t look fine.” Marco bent his knees a little so their faces were even. “Did I—did I say something wrong?”  
  
Not unless it was wrong to apologize for genuinely seeming to care about a near stranger’s well-being. Why _had_ he stopped? It was difficult to remember when all he wanted to do was stare into Marco’s eyes. “Why’re you so _nice_ to me?” was what he blurted out.  
 _  
Good going, brain. The thought-to-mouth filters are only supposed to come off when I drink.  
  
Studies have shown that going without sleep is just as bad as alcohol consumption,_ a snide little voice informed him.  
 _  
Yeah, I’ve got an idea of where you can shove those studies._  
  
Luckily all Marco did was blink really slow a few times and just as slowly straighten back up.  
  
“Do I need a reason to be nice?” And that was new. Jean had never heard his voice so carefully modulated, seen his posture so rigidly controlled. Marco was so still he might have been a statue. Jean winced and prayed the dark hid most of his blush, pushing down his hood and ruffling his hair. How did he think the air was cool before? He was sweating like he had downed the whole jar of hot salsa he had just bought.  
  
“People usually aren’t. To me. Because like,” Jean was floundering now, trying to find the right words that would snap Marco back to his usual self. “I’m not exactly nice, either, so.”  
  
“You’re just honest.”  
  
“Yeah, well. It puts people off.”  
  
Marco didn’t relax exactly but he did stop playing statue, so that counted for something surely, even if all he did was half-turn towards their houses. “Not me,” he said quietly as they started walking again. “I think you’re plenty nice, Jean.”  
  
He didn’t have a response to that, which seemed to suit Marco just fine, and they walked to Jean’s house in silence. Once they reached the porch, Marco handed the bag back to him. Their fingers brushed, just briefly, but the contact was somehow even more electric than when their legs had bumped on the bus ride.  
  
“Thanks,” Jean blurted out as Marco turned to go. He paused, looking back. One step down on the porch put Jean just a touch taller than him and the change in perspective threw him off—the way his sweet brown eyes looked up at him expectantly through long dark lashes. Jean swallowed hard. “For coming with me,” he expounded, shifting his weight. Marco’s generally neutral expression shifted into something softer as his lips pulled up in a tiny smile.  
  
“Of course, Jean. It was my pleasure.” His gaze flicked between Jean and the door before he took another step down. “Good night.”  
  
“Shit, wait!” Jean dropped the bags and lurched forward without thinking, grabbing his arm. Only, he had been moving too quickly—if it hadn’t been for Marco raising his other hand to catch him, Jean would have pitched forward off the steps. _Shit. Oh shit, shit._ Marco’s warm breath skated across his cheek and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to remove his hand from where it was pressed against him.  
  
“Your sweater,” he managed to get out, too mortified to move or breathe, his heart thundering beneath Marco’s fingertips like he was a fucking hummingbird instead of a grown-ass man. Marco didn’t comment on it. There was a faint dusting of red on his cheeks but he seemed nothing but calm when he gently slid his hand to the safer territory of Jean’s shoulder. A friendly slide. Nothing sensual about that at all, no sir. “It’s upstairs, i-if—”  
  
“Tomorrow.” Marco’s voice was hushed. There was no mistaking the way his eyes dropped to Jean’s lips before flicking back up. _What the fuck._ “I’ll get it when I come over tomorrow.”  
  
In the distance, an ambulance was wailing. Someone’s car alarm was going off, discordant and persistent as a petulant child. And all the angels and demons of Trost could have landed in his yard and Jean would not have been able to move.  
  
There were a few things that Jean Kirschtein knew for certain.  
  
One, he had it bad for Marco.  
  
Two, Marco was not as straight as he had originally thought.  
  
Three, he was going to have to act on this new knowledge. Right fucking now.  
  
“N-Nice catch. By the way.”  
  
“Try to be more careful on the steps, okay? They seem to have it out for you.”  
  
“You saying you don’t like catching me?”  
  
Marco’s mouth opened slightly before closing and he smiled, shaking his head, a tremor running through his shoulders. “I’d just rather you didn’t get hurt.” His gaze snapped to the side and the smile widened, gaining a devious edge. “I think, ah, your friends are waiting for you, Jean.”  
  
“Fucking shit.” Was nothing sacred? Jean groaned. Marco squeezed his shoulder once before letting go and stepping back. “Night, Marco. And thanks. Really.”  
  
“Good night, Jean.”  
  
He spun on his heel, glared at Sasha and Connie who had their faces pressed to the glass of the front window, scooped up the abandoned groceries and slammed the door behind him. Any other day he might have avoided them, but his housemates jumped on him before he could move past the entryway.  
  
“Oh _my god!”_ Sasha shrieked as she drew him into a headlock.  
  
“Fucking shit,” he muttered again. But he was still warm and he couldn’t even muster the energy to be truly irritated.  
  
  
  


 

Jean managed to fend his overeager housemates off by shoving the food he had just bought into their faces, and escaped upstairs. He stripped down and threw on his sweatpants, taking his usual post at his desk. Blood thrumming in his veins, he felt a little dizzy, feeling the phantom touch of Marco on his skin. He ripped down the highlighter list on his wall and crumpled it into a ball, and lobbed it in the general direction of the trashcan. He opened his laptop, patting it consoling when the fan whirred into sudden weary life, more out of habit than any desire to do anything on it.  
  
“So.”  
  
Jean spun his chair around with a glare. Connie folded his arms, a wide shit-eating grin on his face as he stared at Jean from the doorway. He suddenly felt the urge to arm himself with something. Or at least put a shirt on. “Have a good time without us?”  
  
“Good enough.”  
  
“Uh-huh. You were getting pretty cozy with the new boy.”  
  
Jean rolled his eyes expansively, determinedly not looking at the neatly folded sweater at the foot of his unmade bed. “Don’t be stupid. I tripped, he caught me. End of story.”  
  
“Yeah, okay. Dude, I have _eyes._ That whole swooning thing was romance novel cover worthy.” Connie bounced on his toes, still grinning. Jean wondered if he read that many romance novels or was just an authority figure on borderline smutty art, then quickly decided that was something better off added to a filed labeled I Don’t Actually Want To Know. “So?”  
  
“So?” Jean kept his face deliberately deadpan, although he could feel his ears burning with heat already.  
  
“You have to tell me what happened yesterday! And today! Tell me everything. C’mon, just between us bros.”  
  
“Nothing happened!”  
  
“You are such a fucking horrible liar, horseface, c’mon! You can’t pull that Romeo and Juliet shit on the porch and tell me it was nothing!”  
  
“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it!” he snapped. “Maybe I don’t want to fuck anything up before anything even _happens_!”  
  
Connie blew a raspberry at him and flopped down on his bed without permission, propping his head in his hands and kicking his legs idly. His socks were mismatched. One of them was definitely Sasha’s because it didn’t fit right on his smaller frame. Laundry day needed to be moved up, Jean made another mental note. “You really like him, huh?”  
  
Jean looked down at his toes, drumming his fingers against the surface of his desk. Maybe the nightstand spider—which he couldn’t see from this angle but had a feeling it was lurking—would be able to hear his telepathic cry for distress and attack Connie. Avoiding the question, he said, “I invited him to dinner tomorrow.”  
  
“What, like here?” He squinted suspiciously at Jean. “You’re not gonna try and kick me ‘n Sash out, are you?”  
  
“Fuck no, you weirdo! It’s just dinner. I told him to bring the others too, if he wanted.”  
  
“Man. You really gotta up your romancing game, Jean.” Connie rolled over onto his back, smile fading. “Not that I’m not glad you’re potentially exiting the world of being perpetually single but—”  
  
“Fuck you very much, Con.”  
  
“—can we talk about how you haven’t slept since I asked you about that thing?”  
  
However clueless Connie could be when it came to things like balancing a checkbook or studying for exams, he was spot-on with people. He could make friends with a rock. He could liven the mood of a room just by being there. Or kill it, with a few well-timed words. Like now.  
  
“I sleep just fine.”  
  
“Yeah? Let’s rewind to the part of the conversation where I remind you that you can’t lie for beans. Jean, if you’ve found something…” he trailed off, rubbing a hand over his shaved head, his mouth in a tight line.  
  
“I haven’t.” Jean swallowed, glancing at his open laptop. However unsettling it was to have matters unresolved, he wasn’t certain that actually finding anything would be any more helpful. He had about twenty tabs open, which was normal enough, but all but two of them—his email and a recipe blog—had to do with the shit going down in Trost. New articles, the forums. The pictures. “Nothing solid. Nothing that will help us any. Unless you want to call these fairytales about angels or whatever fact.”  
  
“Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains—”  
  
“Don’t quote that nerd shit at me, man.”  
  
“Hey, I was being serious.”  
  
Jean thought about Daz and shivered, thankful all the lights were on. The floorboards creaked and they both looked over as Sasha slipped into the room, flopping down next to Connie without so much as a by-your-leave.  
  
“No fair having a meeting without me.” She pillowed her head on his stomach, legs dangling over the edge of the bed and almost knocking the sweater to the floor. Jean caught it before it fell, although he nearly fell to the floor himself in the process, and pulled it over his head with a grumble. He felt safer with in on, even though one thin layer of wool that smelled like another person wasn’t going to keep away the monsters in the dark. “Talking ‘bout porch boy?”  
  
“Mmhm.”  
  
“I was just thinking—”  
  
“Romance novel cover?”  
  
“Mmhmm.”  
  
“Wow guys, could we not?” Jean muttered. This was why the universe didn’t normally allow teenage love to last. It led down a creepy path to telepathy and invasive habits. Sasha snorted, pulled out a bag of fruit snacks that she smacked Jean in the face with and a granola bar that she split in half and handed off to Connie. “We were talking about the, uh. Research stuff Connie asked me to do for him.”  
  
“I was _actually_ talking about Jean’s recent unhealthy sleeping habits,” Connie said around his mouthful of granola, probably spewing crumbs onto the bed and his girlfriend’s hair. “But yeah, that too.”  
  
The sound of chewing and the distant pulse of the city filled the room. The air seemed heavier. Jean drew his knees up close and spun his chair back around slowly, frowning at his faint reflection in his computer screen. Because the sleeves were right there in his face, Jean surreptitiously breathed in Marco’s scent from the fabric. It didn’t quell his nerves—it called up a different kind of nerves, in fact—but it was nice. It made him feel strong enough to face what he had to say next.  
  
“No one knows where they go,” Jean said abruptly, burying his face in his arms. “When the people disappear. And it’s like no one wants to find out, because the police don’t do shit and the families don’t seem to push it. Or not that I’m aware of. There’s close to zero legitimate journalist coverage. It doesn’t make any sense. If someone you knew just vanished one day, wouldn’t you want to know? Wouldn’t you go out there and fucking look?”  
  
“Trost has always had lots of missing people. Lots of people who don’t want to be found, too.” Sasha crumpled the granola wrapper and aimed a perfect toss to the trashcan. “The ones who disappear, you think they’re dead?”  
  
Connie sighed. “That’s the problem, right? There’s no way of knowing. Can’t track ‘em down if they don’t leave anything behind. If it was…I just can’t buy into a serial killer theory, because there would be _something_ to trace. No human can cover their tracks that well.”  
 _  
What about something not human?  
_  
The unspoken question hung quivering above their heads.  
  
“Your friends might be out there still, Connie,” she said softly, apologetic. The bed creaked under their weight and Jean assumed they were hugging. “Ragako kids are tough.”  
  
“Thanks.” His voice was muffled. “I mean, I’m not counting on it. Trost is a goddamn hellhole these days. But thanks.”

Operating under the assumption that these supernatural _things_ were real, then his friends were dead, Ragako kids or not. Jean chewed on a thumbnail. Was it the angels that killed them? Or the other ones? The way Daz had reacted—not that Jean was counting his reaction as anything totally trustworthy—it could be either side. Titans, some of the people in the forums called them, but just as many referred to them as Giants or just HH. It had taken Jean a while to figure out what that stood for. Human Hunters. Hunters of Humans.  
  
“Jean? You maybe want to show us whatever it is you found?” Sasha said eventually. One of the lightbulbs flickered violently before it burned out with a sharp pop, making all of them jump. She cleared her throat. “I know you summarized before, but you know. Three heads better than one or whatever. Plus if you’re not sleeping, it has to be something bad.”  
  
“I sleep just fine,” Jean repeated dully, wondering if he said it enough times he would start to believe it. He got to his feet regardless, scooping up his laptop and kicking his friends over to make room for himself on the already too-small bed. “Here, have at it. All the tabs are open—and the document—” he closed out his email and the recipe page before passing his computer into their care “—is just the stuff that is most likely true. Maybe.”

Jean watched them scroll through, muttering to each other, their expressions grim but determined. At one point Connie exclaimed a few curses and hid his face in Sasha’s shoulder from a few of the pictures. Jean reached over and rubbed the top of his fuzzy head, sympathetic but also relieved he wasn’t the only one freaked out. Sasha was peeking between the fingers of one hand while she continued to go through the pictures.  
  
“This is nuts, Jean.”  
  
“Certifiably coo-coo cabana,” Sasha agreed. “How does everyone _not know_? I mean, there’s no way all this is happening without someone covering it up.”  
  
“I think you’re underestimating the human ability to ignore the fuck out of things they don’t want to admit are real.”  
  
“Thanks for the psychology lesson, Con.”  
  
 “But even if it’s true, knowing about it doesn’t mean there’s anything we can _do_ about it,” Jean pointed out, vainly trying to find a position that was actually comfortable that didn’t involve sprawling on top of either of them. “Sure, Sasha’s got some badass martial arts moves, but this is way out of our league. It’s not like there are a bunch of paranormal exterminators in the yellow pages we can call up.”  
  
Connie snorted and broke out into laughter. There was a disconcerting hysterical edge to it, like laughing was the only way he was keeping his head on straight. “Who ya gonna call,” he whispered between his giggles.  
  
All three of them laughed with desperate mirth beneath the one dim working lightbulb and ever so briefly, Jean could ignore the terror that hovered over the house, an emotional guillotine ready to drop at any moment.  
  
“What we can do,” Connie said once he gathered his composure, “is try to gather more information. We can try to find evidence.”  
  
“And your friends,” Sasha added, letting him take over control of the computer again.  
  
But not leave. Leaving Trost was not an option. Jean huddled in his borrowed sweater, curling and uncurling his toes. “How the hell are we supposed to find evidence?” Jean muttered.  
  
“Obviously these people were able to find some. The pictures are low quality, but they’re real, Jean. We’ll figure it out, we’ve been through some real shit before.” He grinned suddenly, glancing over. “Remember how we beat down those assholes trying to wreck the young poet’s event the university was running?”  
  
“Yeah, but they weren’t trying to eat us,” his girlfriend pointed out. Definitely a reasonable point, but not one that any of them needed to be reminded of.  
  
“Eh, c’mon Sash. My point is we’re not alone and I think as long as we stick together, we’ll find a way to stay safe,” he said evasively, scrolling through the forum posts. “Hey, Jean, some of these posts are locked.”  
  
“Yeah.” He elbowed Sasha without any real success in getting her to move over. “You have to join the forum to read some of it.”  
  
He scrambled to catch the laptop as Connie tossed it back into his arms. “So make an account, stupid. What if there’s something important in those posts?”

“All right, Christ! Don’t throw it around like that unless you want to replace it.” Jean moodily scrolled back to the top of the page and clicked around until he found the right place and began typing in the information. He used an old email address he hadn’t touched in years. _Just in case. Of something._ It was doubtful anything supernatural would understand technology and things like the internet, but still. Better to be safe than turned into a snack.  
  
“Jean, you know there’s a spider on your nightstand, right?” Sasha poked the side of his head a few times, trying to get his attention.  
  
“Yeah, kill it for me, would you?” he replied distractedly, ignoring the poking, still filling out the account form. Should he put an alias for his name? He squinted at the screen, drumming his fingers lightly on the keyboard without actually pressing down. Then he very deliberately typed in _John Kirk,_ trying not to feel like a complete paranoid idiot.  
  
“No way! Your room, your spider,” Connie said, sounding equal parts grossed out and interested by Sasha’s discovery of his eight-legged roommate.  
  
“Jerk. Do your own fucking laundry this week, then.” Now to wait for the account confirmation email. Jean sighed, letting the computer rest on his belly while he waited. Connie flailed his leg in an attempt to kick his shin, succeeding only in rolling over almost completely on top of Sasha, his foot landing dangerously close to the laptop.  
  
“House rules, dude! You can’t skip out on laundry.”  
  
Sasha ignored them both. “I think it’s kinda cute! We should name it.”  
  
“Sasha, no. Do not name the goddamn spider.”  
  
“She looks like a Brunhild, don’t you think?”  
  
Jean groaned. “Get out of my room.” Neither of them moved, naturally. He had a sinking feeling that  _Brunhild_ was being granted pet status. No. Fuck no.  
  
“Don’t worry, Brunhild, Jean’s just threatened by strong, independent women. He’s really a big softie.”

"I do not know you people," he muttered between his teeth, grateful for the soft notification ding of new mail in his inbox that meant he could go back to ignoring them.

  
  
It was the early hours of the morning by the time Jean gave up trying to kick Sasha and Connie out of his room, and just grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and migrated downstairs to the couch. Maybe _they_ had no qualms about taking over other people’s rooms, but he was slightly more civilized than that. Also, more crumbs on the floor meant more bugs in the room, and he was not equipped to deal with that shit. Gross.  
  
He bundled himself in a cocoon and drowsily browsed through the new posts on the forums, taking notes as he went. His last coherent thoughts before he passed out were that Marco could make a lot of money by putting his smell on the market, and impending death by monsters was a lot less scary when you had reliable friends at your side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Welcome to the chapter I kept editing and still am not happy with.
> 
> I bumped up the rating for blood/violence related reasons. Because blood. And violence. (Let me know if I need to throw something else in the tags???)
> 
> For reference if anyone is interested, I gave Mikasa owl wings—which yes, make essentially zero noise when they flap. Pretty awesome, right? I love owls. If you want to get even more specific, coloration was roughly taken from the greater sooty owl, which is a total cutie patoot. Also I imagine Marco’s wing coloration to be similar to the red kite. Because kites aren't THE fastest bird of prey, but they are super agile and graceful! Also yes, pretty colors.
> 
> And my family said my ornithology classes would never have real life applications.


	5. Dead Center

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanji brings bad news and worse news. Feelings are a complicated beast. The unearthing of Shiganshina. Casualties.

Marco didn’t get more than a few steps inside the door before his communicator went off like a siren, echoed by the three others in the house. There was loud thud from upstairs, followed by a muffled series of curses and footsteps. He heard Mikasa sigh softly from the living room couch and set down a mug on the coffee table. Marco put the comm up to his ear, pausing with his shoes partially untied in the entrance hall.  
  
“Did I get everyone?” came Bertholdt’s voice. He could hear Annie in the background muttering that it didn’t matter if he did or not, _just get on with it._  
  
“We’re all here,” Marco assured him, glancing at the ceiling. His companions all murmured something along the same lines, the sound echoing slightly due to their proximity.  
  
“The three of us are on patrol right now—”  
  
“Wait, isn’t it just supposed to be you and Reiner?”  
  
“He’s getting to that. Quiet, Eren.”  
  
“Um, anyway, we’ve marked down the location for reference, but another pseudo-hotspot sprang up. Still within the range we talked about before. That’s why Annie’s here too. Um.” He coughed and some static came across the line. Marco thought he could hear the distant but unmistakable shrilling of police car sirens. “It was near the center of the city, though, so there were some—some casualties before we got there.”  
  
Marco closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. There was no point in being guilty, because they were doing all they were able to. It still pained him, knowing that there were humans they could not protect. There was an overabundance of terrible ways to die, but alone, terrified, and confused probably ranked at the top of the list.  
  
“How many?” Eren asked tightly.  
  
“Four dead, no remains. There’s a fifth, but…I’m not sure for how long.”  
  
The sirens continued.  
  
“T-That’s all we’ve got to report, so...”  
  
“Wait, before you go,” Armin said quickly, “how many got through the portal?”  
  
“Six, but two of them were—”  
  
An unholy, deafening shriek of conflicting communicator signals was streamed directly into all their ears. Marco managed not to curse more than a single heartfelt _fuck_ or drop his device, but he held it at arm’s length with his free hand clapped to his throbbing ear. From the resounding thud from upstairs, he was fairly certain Eren had fallen, and he could identify the inventive string of swear words as Armin. Mikasa was silent.  
  
“I’ll get it,” Armin yelled, voice hoarse, over the continuing noise. When it finally cut out, Marco sighed in relief, cautiously bringing the communicator back to his ear.  
  
“Still with us, Bertholdt?” he asked,  
  
“Y-Yeah.”  
  
“Armin picked up the other line.”  
  
“Yeah. We, um. Heard.” Reiner’s cackling could be heard in the background, and Bertholdt let out a breathless, nervous laugh of his own.  
  
“I’m not sure how long he’ll be, so if there’s nothing else to report…”  
  
“Right.” He sounded a little steadier. “We’ll talk later.”  
  
“Stay safe out there.”  
  
“We’re doing our best.”  
  
The four of them remaining on the line hung up. The soft buzz of Armin’s voice from upstairs was familiar and soothing. Marco finally removed his shoes, rubbing ruefully at his ear and trying not to think about the dead civilians. Four or five dead was not many in the grand scheme of things, but Marco wasn’t thinking about the grand scheme. He was thinking of their temporary neighbors, of the faces he was starting to recognize as he repeatedly passed them in the streets. One day, it might be them. He poked his head around the corner and found Mikasa with her legs crossed primly, pointedly not looking at the communicator she had drowned in a glass of water. He smiled and started up the stairs.  
  
 _Jean._ The stairs reminded him of Jean, and the weight of his body against his, the delicate hammering of his pulse beneath his fingertips and his amber eyes shamelessly staring at him like he never wanted to look away. Jean had smelled like all the heat of an August summer, like the warm updrafts he longed to chase higher and higher when he flew.  
  
He didn't have the heart to remind himself that whatever it was they had, it would never be serious.  
  
Nor that one day, Jean might become one of those casualties. Would there be remains for him? Would there be enough of his bones to burn or would it only be blood?  
  
Eren sat outside the room he shared with Armin, rubbing his head and blinked vaguely up at Marco when he reached the top of the steps. “You’re back,” he said. It wasn't something that required a response, but Eren was already looking away before Marco could say anything. “Four more dead. This…this war with the Titans, it sucks back home, but here…here they don’t even know what’s hitting them. Four more dead, and they’ll just think they vanished.”  
  
He had taken out his short ponytail, which always made him look younger, but it was easy to see the lines of concern and battle-ready tension in his body. After a brief moment of hesitation, Marco sat beside him, deliberately choosing the left side. The side that had been wounded in the same training accident that nearly cost Marco his life. It _had_ cost the life of two of their comrades. Tomas. Mina.  
  
“You being there wouldn't have changed their fate, Eren. It was a matter of timing in this case, not manpower.” Despite being the truth, they were poor words of comfort. “And there’s still the fifth. They might live.”  
  
“Yeah.” Eren swallowed hard. “Yeah, they might. But it’s not enough, Marco.”  
  
“It’s all we have, for now,” he replied softly.  
  
“Still sucks.”  
  
“I won’t argue that.”  
  
The house creaked around them. Marco wondered, idly, if Mikasa’s communicator could be rescued from its watery grave or if they’d have to send for a new one. Perhaps while Survey was at it, they could send more backup. The situation in Trost was only likely to get worse from here on out.  
  
Eren shifted beside him, an aborted movement to get to his feet that made him bump his head lightly against the wall. “Sorry for being weird before. Armin told me…”  
  
“Told you what?”  
  
“That you _like_ him. Jean. Which, I mean,” he frowned, glancing towards the half-open door through which they could hear Armin speaking in a quick, hushed tone to whoever was on the other line. Hanji, hopefully, but more likely someone else from Survey asking for an updated status. “I get it, I think. He’s kind of an asshole, but I get it.”  
  
“You weren’t being weird. I didn’t—” _couldn’t_ “—explain the situation properly. There’s no need to apologize. If anyone is at fault, it’s me, Eren.”  
  
If anything, his words, meant to be calming, seemed to frustrate him. “I just—sometimes I just get this feeling, you know, that if I let my friends out of my sight. That they won’t come back. I don’t like it when people leave me. And it’s stupid, but I can’t stop.” Eren looked past him at the door again then at the stairs, hands curled tightly in the cotton lounge pants he wore. “I can’t stop.”  
  
“No one likes it when people leave.” Marco huffed out a breath, carefully searching for the right words as he wrapped a loose arm around his friend. Eren let his head drop on Marco’s shoulder. They fit comfortably, just as they had during their training years. “With the kind of life we lead, it’s only to be expected that not everyone will make it back.”  
  
“I know,” he mumbled. “Marco?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You’ve got weird taste, man.”  
  
Marco laughed a little. “I’m not sure I can disagree.”  
  
“Well, if spending time with him makes you happy, I don’t mind sharing for now,” Eren decided, settling closer to him. Marco leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. Whether or not he was happy, whether or not his friendship with Jean could remain appropriate. Whether or not they could control the situation with the Titans. He wasn’t the type to simply ignore problems until they went away or because too big to ignore, but no answers were forthcoming. His mind was already too full of boxes of thoughts and problems he didn’t have the capacity to deal with. Sooner or later, Marco would have to deal with them, capacity or no.  
  
The door opened. Armin stopped it just short of slamming into the wall and stood, tense and grim faced in the doorway, staring hard at some distant point. Eren went stiff, lifting his head and watching his lover expectantly. With the light behind him, he appeared liked a hallowed angel of war, golden hair and pale eyes that promised blood.  
  
“Get in the car,” Armin said authoritatively, communicator held tight enough in his hand that they could hear the metal creaking under the strain. Marco counted slowly in his head, holding to his composure while he could.  
  
“Armin?”  
  
He let out a breath, gaze moving to them. “Just get in the car,” he repeated, gentler. “That was Hanji. I…we’ve got a problem. A _big_ problem.”  
            

 

 

  
  
  
For the second time since being stationed in Trost, all the Warriors were gathered around the same rickety table. Human, Demonic, Divine. They all looked the same in civilian clothes, faces hard and bodies deceptively relaxed, predators prepared to leap into battle. At the center of the table was Armin’s communicator, crackling softly.  
  
“Well, kiddos,” Hanji’s voice blared out into the space, making them wince. Marco could hear Moblit in the background, wearily muttering something about volume control. “Thanks for gathering so fast. I’ve got some information on your current situation in Trost. Or at least, it’s a working theory.”  
  
“No offense, Major, but I’d be more comfortable with something more concrete than a theory,” Reiner said tightly.  
  
“Wouldn’t we all, Garrison boy,” they chirped out, unfazed. Bertholdt touched his arm, admonishing, wiping away the sweat on his face with his other hand. Armin cleared his throat slightly.  
  
“The Major’s information is as concrete as it gets. Considering our predicament, I don’t think we can afford to argue whether or not it’s watertight.”  
  
“Argue too much, the whole ship goes down around you while you do,” Mikasa agreed, nodding once. “At least a theory saves us from being dead in the water like we are now.”  
  
“If you’re done with the water metaphors, can someone start explaining why we’re all here instead of patrolling?” Annie interjected. Mikasa spared her a cold look from across the table. Armin sighed.  
  
“It turns out that Hanji’s grandmother—”  
  
“Great-grandmother,” Hanji corrected, their overly loud and excited voice causing the connection to screech for a moment.  
  
“Yes, sorry. Hanji’s _great-_ grandmother Ilse left behind a notebook about her studies of the Titans. Hanji came across it just by chance and they’ve been reading…” Armin rubbed a hand over his face, making a vague gesture to the communicator. “Go ahead, Hanji, you might as well explain it yourself. The short version, please.”  
  
“Short version?” They sighed heavily.  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Fine, _fine._ Short version. Listen up. So it turns out that in Ilse’s time there was this—not entirely the same, I’m certain, but very similar phenomenon, of the Titans suddenly becoming organized, proceeding with premeditated actions as if they were gaining intelligence. She was able to—and this is the amazing part, this is the best, oh man, you guys,” they squealed, and when they spoke again their voice was lower and eerily intense. “There’s an Alpha Titan. Just one that she knew of. Highly intelligent, and it _controls_ the other Titans like its own personal pawns on a chessboard. Ilse called it the uh…” there was the gentle rustle of paper, “the ‘God of Titans’. Might be that it’s the one that spawned the rest. And the dimensions for this thing—Eren, Mikasa, what’s the biggest you’ve seen? 20 meters?”  
  
“23 meters,” Mikasa corrected. “But just once.”  
  
“This thing is 60 meters.”  
  
“But’s that’s—!”  
  
“Amazing, right? Unheard of. I can’t believe she witnessed it! What I would give to see that beast!”  
  
“Major, please.” Moblit’s voice was soft and more distant, but the admonishing tone was unmistakable.  
  
“Right, sorry. Next point of interest. Ilse theorized that the Alpha Titan exhibited some kind of psychic influence over the other Titans that got them to behave the way they did. Now, we all know that Titans on their own aren’t what you’d call smart, so I’m thinking the control builds something like a hivemind. Ilse doesn’t have much written about it, to be honest.” They turned a few more pages, humming under their breath. “What we know for sure is give normal Titans any significant amount of intelligence and they turn into apex predators, not so unlike your Warrior forms. Which is fascinating! But also, you know, a little problematic for us.”  
  
That was a thought too disturbing to muse on for long. Marco swallowed hard.  
  
“Anyway, that’s what I’ve got.”  
  
“Is there anything in there about how to fight it?” Eren asked at once. “Anything about how they took the Alpha down?”  
  
The silence through the connection was eerie and weighted. “Well,” Hanji began, as close to hesitant as they ever got, “far as I can tell, they _didn’t_ take it down. Granted, it seems like Ilse kicked it before she fully completed her research, but there’s no mention in the notebook about fighting it or anything. I’ve been going through the records, but either nobody fought this Alpha Titan and it subsided on its own terms, or things have been wiped clean by someone.”  
  
Marco glanced over to Annie but her expression was blank as always, hands curled loose in her hoodie pocket. If anyone had wiped records, it would be the Military Police. Their group was operating under the assumption they could trust Annie, but it was undeniably a gamble, even if they weren’t all aware of it. Eren groaned, a sentiment they all agreed with, judging from the nervous sweat on Bertholdt’s forehead and Reiner and Mikasa’s matching scowls.  
  
“If you’re certain there’s nothing, we’ll simply have to strategize on our own then,” Armin said with a sigh. “I’m assuming you’ve passed word to the Commander?”  
  
“That I have. Keeping it hush-hush otherwise, since I’ve come across a lot of fishy shit in my day, and boy does this whole thing reek of fish. Really, really dead fish. The deadest fish you can imagine, left to marinate in the sun.” There was the sound of more rustling papers. “I’m going to keep looking, though. Never know what might turn up in the archives, so it’s worth a shot. Erwin will probably want to speak with you direct, but I doubt you’ll be getting anymore backup, kiddos. And I don’t suppose I have to bring up that you’re not to discuss this with anyone from homebase. That goes for all factions present, including little Lady MP herself, that clear?”  
  
They all murmured their assent, although Annie’s eyes narrowed at the ‘little’ comment, and Hanji cheered up.  
  
“That’s that then! I’ll leave you to it. Be in touch, kiddos.”  
  
They cut off the connection before anyone could respond, leaving them huddled around the table in silence, staring at the small communicator. The sound of the old house around them was intrusive, a scraping along the nerves that made Marco shudder. Eren slammed his fist down on the table, making it shiver and crack.  
  
“Damn it! Fucking—damn!” No one tried to stop him for once, but he turned to Armin, not embracing him so much as headbutting him in the chest, free hand curling into the other man’s shirt. “I hate this, I hate these—fucking Titans!” He let out a wordless growl, skin rippling like he might transform. Armin let him hang on, his face clear and his blue eyes cold as a frozen lake. He touched Eren gently, a hand to the back of his head, and did not speak.  
  
Mikasa straightened her spine, arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed.  
  
“I won’t let Trost fall,” she announced abruptly, normally quiet voice ringing out in the room with authority. “I watched Shiganshina fall. I’ve watched the Titans destroy whole cities back across the line. But I will not watch Trost fall.”  
  
It was a harsh reminder; the trio had started out here in the civilian world, had watched their entire city be consumed by the Titans in the biggest disaster in human and Warrior history, and had been rescued by the Survey Corps. They had more cause to hate Titans than most.  
  
“None of us will,” Marco said tightly. “So long as we’re alive, we’ll fight. 60 meters or not, if it’s a Titan, it can be killed.”  
  
“You’re all crazy,” Reiner said, a vicious grin on his face. “But hell if I’m backing out of this thing now. I’ll shove a goddamn blade up that Titan’s ass so far it’ll be sneezing iron.”  
  
“Charming,” Bertholdt said dryly. “Very charming, Reiner.”  
  
“You know it, Bertl.”  
  
The tension did not lift, but shifted. They had purpose now. Even so, something Hanji had said was troubling Marco.  
  
“I just had a thought,” Marco said slowly. He paused there, hesitating to voice it aloud.  
  
“Revolutionary,” Annie drawled out, kicking his shin under the table. “Thanks for sharing.”  
  
Mikasa looked ready to strangle the other woman over the kick but sat in fuming silence with her arms crossed hard enough that the muscles were popping out. Marco shook his head, fingers twitching against the tabletop. “The psychic control Hanji was talking about. The influence that the Alpha wields over the other Titans. Do you think…you don’t suppose that influence could leak out to the civilians, do you?”  
  
The others looked at him with varying degrees of horror.  
  
“Why would you even _say_   that?” Eren asked, turning his head, green eyes tinged with Demonic Warrior gold.  
  
“Because even though they are aware of the disappearances of their fellow humans, no one in Trost talks about it.” As he continued, Armin tilted his head back, hard expression melting into something close to despair. “More importantly, you notice how none of them are trying to leave Trost? Wouldn’t that be the first thing you’d do if strange things were happening in your hometown?”  
  
“Gather your family and leave before it got any worse,” Armin said, barely above a whisper. “Make an escape.” An escape that he, Mikasa, and Eren didn’t have the luxury of as children during the fall of Shiganshina.  
  
“Hold up, are you really saying that this supposed Alpha is putting a psychic lockdown on the civilians? Is that even possible?”  
  
“Well, we thought that Titans with intelligence were an impossibility.”  
  
“Not so farfetched when you put it that way. Shit, that’s awful.” Reiner frowned.  
  
“It’s just a thought,” Marco reminded them, with a sinking feeling that he might be right.  
  
“Assuming Marco’s thought _is_ correct, how are we supposed to verify it? There’s no way to prove that the civilians are being acted upon by an outside force like that.”  
  
It was Annie who spoke, to Marco’s surprise.  
  
“By interacting with them, dumbass,” she told Bertholdt coolly. “Ask questions. Observe.”  
  
“We can’t all be wasting time playing nice with—”  
  
“Marco has an in with our neighbors,” Mikasa interrupted.  
  
All eyes fell on him and he held carefully still, kept his face smooth, focusing his gaze around Annie’s left eyebrow.  
  
“We have an open dialogue,” he expounded neutrally, fingers itching with the memory of Jean’s slender body. “I’ll find out all I can. In the meantime, we should be more concerned about the Titans. Unless Armin has any immediate plans, we may as well call it a night.”  
  
Armin did not, other than reiterating the need for caution on patrols. The threat of death and the constant pressure of danger was nothing new. Another enemy, another battle, another day.  


 

 

  
  
  
It wasn’t until they were halfway home that Marco remembered Jean’s invitation. Armin was driving, Mikasa and Eren were sprawled in the back. He cleared his throat softly, his reflection in the smudged glass pale and ghostly under the passing lights.  
  
It took until they were in the house before he could force the words out in a way that was calm and unaffected. He paused at the top of the stairs, letting Mikasa slip past him and into her room.  
  
“Jean invited us to dinner,” he announced.  
  
Mikasa said something indistinct, along the lines of ‘that was nice’. Eren poked his head out of the bathroom, in the midst of brushing his teeth. “You mean he invited you?”  
  
“He extended the invitation to everyone. His housemates will also be there, he said.”  
  
Armin had pulled his hair loose from his braid and exchanged his street clothes for a sleep shirt, but there was a pile of book sin his arms as he emerged from his room.  
  
“Could be a good opportunity to find a few things out,” he mused. “Eren, you don’t have any objection to doing a patrol with Reiner, do you? All four of us can’t be tied up tomorrow night.”  
  
“Not really.” Eren frowned but ducked back into the bathroom, going back to his brushing. “Don’t stay up all night again, Ar.”  
  
No one questioned why Jean had invited them. No one had question his motives in accepting. No one questioned anything, even though Marco had spent a good part of the drive home formulating reasonable excuses. Tension bled out from his shoulders and he said his goodnights.  
  
His dreams were full of blood, and more disturbingly, the screams of civilian sirens.  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Marco was awake the moment the door opened, dagger in hand and ready to launch himself in an all-out attack.  
  
“Just me. Sorry, Marco.” Armin stayed in the doorway, leaning against the frame with one shoulder. “You’ve got a visitor.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Jean’s downstairs.”  
  
If he had been startled before, he wasn’t sure what he was now. Marco was standing before he could think about it, scrubbing a hand over his bedhead. He hadn’t heard the doorbell ring or anything, which was next to unbelievable. A lifetime of soldiering made light sleepers of anyone who wanted to stay alive.  
  
“Downstairs? Jean is?”  
  
“Well, downstairs in the figurative sense.” Armin inspected his nails. Marco took in his mussed hair and the increasingly dark shadows beneath his pale eyes. Obviously he hadn’t paid any heed to Eren’s words about staying up all night. Not that that was surprising, but Marco felt guilty for sleeping when his friend had been awake for so long. “He’s been loitering on the porch for about five minutes now. I figured you might want to go put him out of his misery.”  
  
“Out of his…yes. Okay. Thanks, Armin.” He squared his shoulders before heading to the door and slipping past Armin. The smaller man sighed and followed him down the stairs after a moment.  
  
“Knife, Marco.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“For the love—Marco, give me the knife.” His calloused fingers grabbed his wrist and Marco let him pull the weapon free from his hand. A hot flush rushed up his neck. He hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. _Get yourself under control, Marco Bodt._  
  
“Oops,” he muttered. “Thanks, Armin.”  
  
Just when Marco was reaching for the door, Armin grabbed him again.  
  
“Shirt, Marco. Put on a damn shirt.” He shoved one into his hands. Had he grabbed a spare one from Marco’s room somehow? Did he keep a constant supply of spares in his pockets?  
  
“Oops?”  
  
“Hopeless,” Armin muttered. “All of you are hopeless. Go on, see what he wants. Try not to scare him too much.”  
  
“Thanks, Armin.”  
  
“Stop thanking me and go.”  
  
Marco nodded quickly. He balled up the shirt in his hand, took a breath, and pulled the door open. He tried to be casual about it, like he had woken up and was stepping out to get some fresh air.  
  
Jean was standing with his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, mouth slightly open with surprise and face cleared of its usual frown. His hair was sticking up a bit on one side. A cowlick, maybe. His eyes were wide, at first with surprise, then as he blatantly stared at Marco’s body. Marco quickly pulled the shirt over his head. As much as he enjoyed the obvious pleasure Jean was taking in staring, Marco wasn’t that comfortable with other people looking at his scars too much. Even among the other Warriors, it led to questions he didn’t enjoy answering.  
  
“Um, good morning, Jean.” Marco tried for a smile, hoping his hair didn’t look too ridiculous. He should have checked a mirror before stepping out.  
  
“I wasn’t being creepy,” the other man blurted out, cheeks red. One of his hands flew up to his mouth, then fluttered lower to play with the strings of his hood. “I, u-um. I mean, good morning. I was just about to knock when you…you, you know!”  
  
Marco took a step closer. “Would you like to come—”  
  
“I-I can’t come in! I don’t—I mean, I just had a quick question to ask.”  
  
“Oh?” Marco pulled the door shut so they could talk in relative privacy and tugged his shirt down properly. It was just cool enough that his breath fogged up in the morning air. “And what’s that?”  
  
“Food allergies.” Jean cleared his throat loudly. “D-Do any of you have food allergies? For dinner tonight. I forgot to ask yesterday.”  
  
“Ah. Well, Eren can’t make it.” It took him a moment to respond. Jean had always come across as abrupt, but the question was surprisingly thoughtful. Marco tucked his hands in his pockets to put a stop to the foolish urge to touch Jean. “But no, none of us have food allergies. Are you sure it’s fine for us to come over? We wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have invited you if I considered it an imposition. Damn, are you always this articulate when you first wake up?”  
  
Marco laughed and tried not to think about the knife Armin had taken away from him. “This hardly qualifies as articulate!”  
  
Jean snorted and rolled his eyes. “‘Hardly qualifies’. Unbelievable. When I wake up, you’re lucky to get more than one syllable.”  
  
“Then you’ve been up for a while?”  
  
“Mm, I guess.” He turned his head, scuffing his shoes on the porch. “A-Anyway, I’ll get back and let you…do…whatever.”  
  
Jean stepped back like he might leave and Marco moved forward another step, lightly touching his arm. They stood in awkward stillness, close enough now that their bodies were building a pocket of heat between them.  
  
“U-Um?” Jean’s voice cracked.  
  
“What time should we come over?” Marco asked. Jean tilted his head, thinking. Marco took advantage of their proximity and Jean’s mild distraction to study his tired, handsome features unimpeded.  
  
“Shit, I dunno. Seven, maybe. That okay for you? Actually,” his amber eyes brightened as he smiled, looking up at him, “if you give me your number I can text you when things are done.”  
  
Marco’s confusion must have been obvious because Jean rolled his eyes.  
  
“I’m taking back the articulate comment. Your phone number? I saw you carrying a cell yesterday.”  
  
He must have been referring to the communicator. Marco wasn’t certain what Jean meant by ‘text’ but regardless, civilian phones and their communicators weren’t meant to be compatible. Even if they had been, what Jean was asking for was a way to contact him no matter the time or where he was, and that just _was not possible._ Handling this would be something of a problem. Marco thought quickly, reluctantly removing his hand and taking a half-step backwards.  
  
“Unfortunately, that’s for work purposes only. I could get in a lot of trouble for handing it out for personal reasons. I’m sorry, Jean,” he added when he saw the flash of disappointment cross Jean’s face. “Really.”  
  
“And you don’t keep a second one for personal reasons?” he asked, a bit sharp.  
  
“I’ve never needed to before,” Marco admitted honestly.  
  
“What, not even for your family? Christ man, that’s cold.”  
  
Marco could not blame him for his disbelief. Nor for his anger. No matter how gently he phrased it, it was a rejection of his approach for intimacy. “I don’t have family,” he informed him. The smoke of his breath vanished quickly, leaving only the words drifting in the air. His mother had passed away from an illness when he was young, and his father not long after he entered training to become a Warrior.  
  
Marco considered himself lucky, in that respect. When he visited their graves, at least he knew it was their ashes entombed within. That it was their bones he watched burn, not the bones of a stranger.  
  
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t…sorry, Marco. Me and my mouth, shit.”  
  
“It’s fine, Jean. It was a long time ago.” Marco kept his tone light, redirecting the conversation quickly. “I know it’s more inconvenient, but perhaps you could come tell us when you’re ready?”  
  
“Nah, just…just come over at seven, we’ll be ready,” Jean said. He was frowning at some distant point past Marco’s shoulder. “Oh, and don’t eat any nuts before you come over. Don’t even touch them if you can avoid it. Connie’s got a bad allergy, EpiPen and the works. We don’t want to make a hospital trip out of dinner.” Marco wasn’t certain what an EpiPen was, but from the context he assumed it was a type of medication. It’s not like allergies were a foreign concept, so he nodded in polite understanding. With that, Jean turned to go, slouching down the porch steps. Marco watched his retreating back.  
  
“I’m looking forward to it,” he called out after him, belatedly. One hand lifted in lazy recognition of his words. Marco smiled, slipping back inside only once Jean had entered his own home. Marco leaned back against the door and closed his eyes briefly. The soft sound of rustling paper drew his attention to Armin, who had migrated with a few of his books to the kitchen table. A steaming mug of coffee sat before him, and on the opposite side of the table was a mug of hot cocoa, sitting in open invitation. Marco scratched at his nose. Slowly, he made his way over and sat in the chair, curling his hands around the mug.  
  
“So,” Armin said lightly.  
  
So.  
  
“Did you turn up anything else?” Marco asked, not bothering to disguise his attempt to avoid the subject of why Jean had been loitering on the porch at—Marco glanced at the clock—seven in the morning. “Any ideas about the Titans?”  
  
“Nothing new, unfortunately. Hanji will contact me again if they find something, of course, but I had hoped to come up with a few ideas of my own. Not that I’m finished with these, by any means.” He sighed, scribbling something down on a piece of loose paper that was already filled with many similar scribbles. “So far, nothing useful. Everything comes down to this Alpha Titan. If I could figure out what its motivation was, I think I could make sense of this situation, but right now I don’t know what to do other than keep fighting as we have. Which makes figuring out if the Alpha has had some effect on the civilians even more important.”  
  
Armin looked up from his work pointedly, eyebrows lifted. He looked like a disconcerting mix between the Commander and Major Hanji in that moment. Marco took a long drink of cocoa to cover his reluctance to speak, wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue.  
  
“Jean just wanted to know if any of us had dietary restrictions for tonight’s dinner,” he said eventually. Armin hummed in vague encouragement to continue. “And he, ah, asked for my phone number so he could contact me via something called a text.”  
  
“It’s just an alternative messaging system. Like sending letters electronically.” His lips curved in what would have been a pleasant smile if his eyes hadn’t been sharp as the blades he fought with. “For simplicity’s sake, I’ll assume you refused him.”  
  
“Of course I refused.” There had been little else to do. But Marco couldn’t help wondering, if Jean’s phone and his communicator _had_ been compatible, if being able to stay in contact with him indefinitely was possible—would he still have refused? Would he have argued himself around? Armin relaxed at his confirmation.  
  
“Jean seems like the type to demand an explanation.”  
  
“I made an excuse about it being only for work.” Which was the truth, but not the whole truth. He hadn’t been able to keep calm then. He certainly didn’t feel very calm right now, and it was throwing him off. Marco didn’t like feeling out of control. With a soft groan, he leaned his head down on his arms, avoiding the half-amused and half-sympathetic look on Armin’s face. “I don’t know that he really believed me. He looked mad.”  
  
Armin snorted a little, obviously amused by Marco’s torment, reaching across the table to ruffle his hair in the same absent gesture he used on Eren. “That was probably just his face. He’s been very obviously enamored with you from day one.”  
  
“Being enamored with me doesn’t mean he doesn’t think I’m weird.”  
  
“Do you know what I think? If he couldn’t handle a little weirdness, he would have turned tail a while ago. Not just on you, but on all of us. Yet here we all are.”  
  
“It’s more than a little weirdness, Armin.” Marco turned his head so he could look at him. “Look, if you think I’m getting too deep—if I should cut this off—tell me now. Please. It’ll be easier now than later.”  
  
“Marco, I’m not…” he let out a long breath and considered his words for a while. “I know I’m biased because I started out as a civilian. I think the rules about no contact are pretty shitty, because honestly, how are we supposed to protect a world we don’t understand? And I think it’s only a matter of time before the Warriors have to integrate with civilian society, or at least let them know we exist. Eren and Mikasa feel the same. Hell, I got a few drinks in Corporal Levi once and he all but said the same thing when I asked. You should have heard him ranting about how the old standards of the Warriors were starting to drag us down. I don’t think you’re in too deep, Marco. I think you’ve made a friend. And if that means you lose a little control—fine. It’s healthier than the way you usually close yourself off. Just do me a favor and don’t bring it to the battlefield.”  
  
There was a lot to process in that bold statement. Too much, for the time being, although Levi and _drinking_ was a thought that stood out from the rest. Marco latched onto his last words. “You think I’m closed off?”  
  
“I think you want to take care of other people so badly that you neglect yourself, yes,” was his retort. “And while your intent is admirable, Marco, nobody wants a soldier who can’t admit when he’s having feelings, negative or positive, to himself. Compartmentalizing is one thing, outright refusal to handle your emotions is another. It doesn’t lead anywhere pretty.”  
  
That stung. He had gotten as far as he had by shoving his emotions to the sidelines in most situations. “I see.”  
  
“Belabored as the point is, I’m only saying this because I care about you.” Armin smiled, weary, and pinched his cheek. “See? Feelings. And I’ve got rank on you, Warrior Bodt.”  
  
Marco sighed, rubbing at his cheek. He thought about Levi and Mikasa, whose outward appearances were stoic and emotionless. They were toted as the ideal, the strongest, the example they all should follow. But beneath their stoicism was emotion that ran deep. He thought about Hanji, who was constantly full of passion and emotion, and how they were still intelligent and strong enough to hold a high rank.  
  
“You’re a good friend, Armin,” he said. It was true, and Marco didn’t know what else to say in this strange house in a strange land.  
  
“Mm, don’t I know it.”  
  
“You’d make a good commander. One day.”  
  
“Well, maybe we’ll all live long enough to see that happen,” he muttered. “You may as well get ready for your shift since you’re awake.”  
  
Marco blinked in surprise at the sudden tone of command, eyeing his friend curiously but finishing off his hot cocoa as quickly as he could manage. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep getting to him.  
  
Perhaps, like Eren, he was praying for the fifth civilian from last night. Praying that they became not a casualty—a little black line to add to their report—but a survivor.  
  


 

 

***  


 

 

 

“Jean.”  
  
“Not now.”  
  
“Jean—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“ _Jean_.”  
  
“Unless you have an answer to the question of how much pasta I need to feed six people then get the fuck out of this kitchen.” Not to mention three of the six people in question were built like professional athletes and would eat more than an average citizen such as himself. Well, maybe four. If Armin was in ‘personal security’ like the rest of his company, he was probably secretly buff behind his gentle smiles and long hair.  
  
Jean looked up from his laptop—currently precariously balanced on top of one of Connie’s textbooks—with one of his high caliber glares. Sasha wasn’t fazed, one hand on her hip and the other holding a balled up shirt that she should have been wearing. Currently she was wearing her good leggings—the only pair without sports drink stains—and a pink camouflage bra. Jean had seen her half-naked enough times that it was only slightly embarrassing and he politely looked back down at the recipe directions. “You’re dressed up today,” he commented.  
  
“What?”  
  
“No sports bra.”  
  
“M’yeah. Gotta set the girls free once in a while.” She threw the shirt at his face, obviously enjoying it as he flailed, only just barely managing to catch it. “This is literally my only clean shirt, asshole! Go do the laundry! Just because your potential paramour is entering our domain doesn’t mean you get out of chores!”  
  
“Sash, c’mon, I have to go to the store for stuff—”  
  
“You were at the store yesterday, dumbass.”  
  
“I didn’t know I was feeding six people yesterday!” he snapped. He threw the shirt back and Sasha caught it gracefully. Damn it all. With a loud groan, Jean rubbed a hand over his face and tried to imagine peaceful things. Calming things. His brain didn’t really get the memo though as his thoughts continued to whirl. “Sasha, please, just cut me some slack today, all right?”  
  
Her face contorted into the expression he was positive she must use on her trainees. It conveyed disapproval, disappointment, and the promise of pain in just the right amounts to be terrifying. “No slack. No cutting chores. Make a list and _I_ will go to the store.”  
  
“Sasha—”  
  
“I will buy exactly what’s on the list, nothing else. Scout’s honor.” She pulled on her shirt at last and tied up her hair with a cheery smile.  
  
“You’re not a scout, Sasha, and you have no goddamned honor.” Jean considered his options, realized he didn’t have any, and cursed softly as he reached for the sticky notes. “Fine. _Fine._ Exactly what’s on the list. Where’d Con run off to this morning?”  
  
“What am I, his keeper? He probably had some stuff to take care of at school.” She shrugged, drumming her fingers as she waiting for him to finish writing. Shrimp scampi for six. Because pasta was easy, pasta was something even Jean couldn’t screw up, but if you added shrimp to pasta that automatically made it fancy. Sophisticated, even. It would be sending out the signal that maybe Jean lived with his friends and didn’t own nice clothes, but was a respectable human being that could fend for himself and others. Sasha left with the list and her airy promise to behave, which left Jean squinting at the recipe on his computer screen.  
  
He tried desperately to not think about the _other_ half-naked person he had seen today.  
  
 _After Connie’s early departure had woken him up at some ungodly hour from his uncomfortable night’s rest on the couch, Jean realized he had no idea what he was making for dinner. Doing his best to rub the kinks of his neck, he scowled at nothing. He hadn’t even asked about dietary restrictions, and having known Connie as long as he had, that was something he always asked. That was irresponsible. Before he could lose his nerve, he got up and gave his face a cursory washing before stomping over next door.  
  
Only to stare at the door.  
  
What if they were all still asleep?  
  
That wasn’t even a question. They were definitely asleep.  
  
Well, maybe not. Maybe not _ all _of them. Personal security meant odd hours which meant…that it was 50/50 that any of them were asleep or in the house at that moment in time.  
  
Wait, so was Marco even home right now?  
  
Jean whipped his head towards the driveway and saw the rental car innocently parked, not that that meant a great deal. What if...he didn’t even know how long Marco was going to be staying with the others. Armin had called him a friend and only said that he was going to be visiting for ‘a while’. How long was a while? Had Marco already left?  
  
While Jean was inwardly panicking and continuing to stare at the door, the door opened to reveal the object of his panic.  
  
The half-naked, complete with bedhead and sleep-warm eyes object of his panic.  
             
Did his abs have abs? Was that kind of muscle definition humanly possible? His fingers itched to touch that deliciously tan skin and seek out every freckle upon it. He sobered slightly when his gaze fell on the massive amounts of scarring on his right side. How did a person end up with that kind of scarring? It would have seemed deliberately done if not for the jagged edges, and how it got worse the lower it went.  
  
_ What had followed was an embarrassing amount of Jean staring at Marco, Marco being his usual calm, polite, and charming self, an oddly intimate moment when Marco touched his arm. And Marco’s gentle rejection of providing Jean with his phone number. Not that he hadn’t had a good explanation for why he couldn’t give it out, but rejection was rejection. It was damn confusing, especially when last night, Marco hadn’t exactly been subtle about his more-than-friendly interest.  
  
Dwelling on it wouldn't get him anywhere fast.  


Jean pushed himself away from the counter with a groan and went to go do battle with the laundry.

 

  
  
The old top-loading washer and dryer set had come with the place, much like the rats and mold. While the drainage system was dubious—the water drained out directly onto the floor, where it disappeared down an uncovered hole in the concrete all of them had accidently stuck their feet in a fair few times—it never had given them trouble.  
  
If it ain’t broke, and _you_ are essentially broke, don’t fix it.  
  
Another small stipulation was that if you didn’t want the dryer to rock out of control and cause a deafening ruckus for the 45-60 minute cycle, you had to park your ass on top of it to keep it weighted down.  
  
That was where Jean sat himself after lugging down their three hampers and tossing in the first load after an attempt to sort colors from not colors. He contemplated, from his perch, a brief foray into the dark corner where he had set up the live rat trap, but considering he didn’t hear any strange rustling it was safe to assume he hadn’t caught anything. Plus, even the working lights seemed extra dim today. He shivered and pulled his legs up from where they had been hanging over the edge of the dryer.  
  
The Wi-Fi in the basement was sketchy at best so he messed around with his phone, checking emails with the lagging connection. After the spin cycle was done and he tossed in the wet clothes to dry, he sent off a text to Connie.

**To: Connie  
whered u go  
  
** After a moment of hesitation, he added another note.

**u woke me up with ur stomping this morning  
asshole**

It took a few moments, but his friend responded.

**From: Connie  
srry man!!!!! Was trying to b quiet. I had stuff to turn in at school early and someone to meet up with.**

**To: Connie  
someone? should have thrown u and sasha outta my bed, my neck is still killing me. **

**From: Connie  
a friend who knows stuff. Stuff about the STUFF u know. The ‘stuff’ stuff.**

**To: Connie  
wtf con**

**From: Connie  
u know what I mean!!! NSA is fuckin everywhere, I’m tryin to keep a low profile.**

**To: Connie  
ur making it sound like drugs connie jfc  
I should start charging u whenever u say ‘stuff’. nsa don’t give a shit about trost anyway or they wouldve busted the neighbors way back**

**From: Connie  
fuck u, I’m just tryin to keep us safe**

It might be safer for them in an unmarked jail cell than in Trost the way things were currently going, but Jean didn’t want to think about that for long. He flipped back to the cooking tips he was scrolling through while he waited for the further response that was certain to come.

**From: Connie  
if ur neck is that bad Sash says she’ll rub it for you~**

**To: Connie  
more like she’ll strangle me if i don’t finish the laundry first  
wait ur with her right now  
??**

A separate message from her pinged into his phone. Jean groaned.

**From: Sasha  
LOL  
u better be doin my delicates separate**

**From: Connie  
We met up at the bus station lol see you in a few jean**

“Fuck you guys,” he muttered. Resisting the urge to throw his phone across the room, Jean shoved it into his pocket and scowled as he sat on top of the rumbling dryer. Sure enough, the door slammed open a scant ten minutes later and the dynamic duo hollered an announcement their return. As if nearly breaking the door down hadn’t alerted him. Jean rolled his eyes as he heard footsteps on the basement steps.  
  
“I bring tribute to the great laundry spirit,” Connie said with a sly grin, opening the cardboard box in his hands to reveal a half-eaten array of doughnuts.  
  
“Seriously? I told Sash to get only what was on the list, and you—”  
  
“Shh, little spirit.” He picked up a chocolate sprinkle one and shoved it so close to his face that really, Jean had no choice but to bite down. He quickly grabbed it so it wouldn’t fall and be wasted on the floor. _Mm, death by sugar._ “Stop grumping and eat. I’m the one that bought them, don’t pick on my girl just because you forgot to eat breakfast.”  
  
“I _did_ have breakfast,” he grumbled, taking another bite.  
  
“Coffee doesn’t count.”  
  
“Says who? Doughnuts are expensive, you shouldn’t’ve.” That didn’t stop him from reaching for another with his spare hand before Connie could take the box away.  
  
“I had a coupon, gimme some credit, man.” He startled when the washer started draining and hurriedly hopped up on top of the machine to avoid getting his feet soaked. They listened to the sound of the water and Sasha walking around upstairs. The distant whir of the vacuum started up. The familiarity was cozy enough that he didn’t mind the dungeon-like quality of the basement so much.  
  
“Hypothetical,” Jean said once it stopped draining. He grabbed the pair of purple Crocs they kept on a tiny shelf along with the dryer sheets and soap, and shoved them onto his feet, hopping down to tend to the laundry. Connie slid over to sit on his vacated space while the dryer rattled through the last minutes of its cycle, holding the doughnut box close. “You’re really into someone and you’re damn sure they’re into you too. You ask for their number for a practical reason and they refuse. What do you think?”  
  
“I think your hypotheticals are no fun.”  
  
The dryer buzzed and stopped. Jean swatted Connie’s legs of out the way of the door and began piling the warm clothes into one of the empty hampers.  
  
“Not helpful, Connie.”  
  
“Okay, okay.” He cleared his throat, sitting cross-legged and composing his naturally cheerful expression into something sterner. He liked to call it his ‘professor’ look. It was ruined by the way he pressed his fingertips together as well as his tie-dyed shirt and cardigan combination. “Was our hypothetical someone sincerely apologetic and-slash-or have a legitimate excuse for refusing?”  
  
Jean had accidently and awkwardly delved into the someone’s personal history by asking rude questions, as always. “It’s a work phone only,” was all he said. “And he was sincere. Far as I can tell. Hypothetically,” he added, moving the wet clothes into the dryer.  
  
“Then maybe you should _hypothetically_ take him at face value. He and his gang are super fucking weird, okay?” Not that Jean had really expected to fool Connie with his theoretical set-up, but he still winced at his brusque tone. “Besides, Mr. Hypothetical seems like an honest person. Like you, only nicer. You said they were in security or whatever, so he’s probably telling the truth.”  
  
Jean thought so too. Something about the whole situation felt off, still.  
  
“I don’t know what I should do,” he admitted, setting the cycle. The dryer rumbled back to life.  
  
“Give it time, grasshopper.” Connie held out his arms. “Now carry me to the stairs. I’ve got stuff to do.”  
  
“Wait, what about the person you met up with? You’re not going to tell me what happened with that?”  
  
Jean had seen Connie serious. He had seen him angry, confused, uncertain, heartbroken, and composed. What he hadn’t seen before was the sudden blank fear that filtered into his gaze. It was only an instant, but it was enough. “Later,” he said impatiently. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until we don’t have to have the conversation in the creepy basement.”  
  
“Connie, c’mon.”  
  
The other man let out a slow breath, tilting his head up.  
  
“Shiganshina,” he enunciated precisely.  
  
“What the fuck’s that?”  
  
“Not what; where.” Connie swallowed hard then held out his arms again. Apparently his distaste for wet socks was greater than whatever fear this _Shiganshina_ had instilled in him. “Jean, I was serious about not talking about this in the basement, okay? We can have a team meeting whenever you’re done with laundry.”  
  
Jean reached out and slapped the button, and the dryer groaned to a halt.  
  
“I’m done.”  
  
“Dude, you can’t just let them sit—”  
  
“Oh, yes I can.”  
  
“Jean.” Connie grabbed the sides of his head with surprising force. “Finish the laundry, okay, man? This is me being totally serious, okay? I’m still, like…processing all the shit I found out. You finish the laundry. Sasha will finish her cleaning. I will finish my thinking. Then we’re going to talk.” His expression tightened like he wanted to close his eyes, but he kept gazing at Jean. “Then we will forget about that talk for the duration of our dinner with Hypothetical and Company. Then tomorrow will be another day and we can deal with our shit.”  
  
It was hard not to jerk away from his cool, clammy skin. Jean held still and stared right back. “That’s a lot of steps,” he muttered.  
  
“You’re the guy who likes having lists. Figured you might appreciate it.” His voice was tight but Connie tried for a weak smile and finally let go.  
  
“Works better if you write it down,” he offered. “That way you can cross it off and pretend you’re accomplished.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
Connie held out his arms again, pointedly. With a snort, Jean gave him a short piggyback to the steps, making him promise to make sure the groceries got put away properly while he was stuck down here.  
  
He slumped back on top of the rattling dryer, appreciating the warmth but not the queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. _What am I supposed to do?_  
  
Jean blew the hair out of his face and decided to start with folding the laundry. Simple things first, confusing stuff later.  
  
He almost wished he had the company of the rats instead of the silence. Almost.  
  
  


 

 

 

Shiganshina was a where.  
  
Or rather, it _had been_ a where.  
  
These days it was more of a graveyard.  
  
“What the hell did they say did this?”  
  
“Underground mine fire. Explosions. Something like that.” Connie tapped a finger on the small newspaper clipping. There wasn't even a headline, just a vague statement about a tragedy in a backwater town that wiped out the population. A freak accident, the article assured him, most likely due to unsafe mining conditions. It was dated…thirteen years ago. He would have been ten years old. How many ten year olds had died in that place?

“I've never even _heard_ of this place before,” Sasha said.

“No one has.” Connie gestured to the picture. “Only reason my friend has this stuff is because he inherited a bunch of things from his dead uncle. Guess he was a conspiracy theorist or something.”  
  
Jean stared at the pictures of buildings utterly demolished, of the once-paved roads torn up. It was an eerily empty place, like a hollowed out shell. The destruction wasn’t deliberate in the precise definition, but it was all encompassing. The earlier pictures were blurrier and grainy, and unmistakably showed smoke rising into the air.  
  
There were also unmistakable figures dancing in that smoke. Figures with wings and blades diving from the sky to collide with figures too giant to be human.  
  
“So these are the Angels,” Sasha said, staring in awe. “The Angels and the…the whatsits.”  
  
“Human Hunters.”  
  
“That’s too long, I just want one word.”  
  
“Titans,” Connie interjected before they could spiral into an argument. He cleared his throat a little, scratching his arm. “That’s, uh. That’s what my friend called them. Anyway, the point is this Shiganshina place? It was never a bustling place, but people lived there. It existed and people lived there. And now it’s not even on the map. It’s less than a ghost town. Whatever happened there, somebody covered it up, and if it happens again, they’ll do the same.”  
  
Jean shook his head slowly. “But all those people—they’re just gone?”  
  
“Gone. Or dead. Or both.”  
  
“But you don’t think this will happen to Trost, right?” Sasha asked, voice higher with strain as she drew up her knees to her chest. “I mean, the Angels are fighting against these Titan things, right?”  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause. They all wanted to believe that, since it was more than clear _something_ was out there to get all of humanity, that something else was out there fighting for the sake of all of humanity.  
  
“My friend said Shiganshina isn’t even that far away. A hundred miles away or so, he wouldn't say exactly where. Or maybe he doesn't know exactly where.” Connie bent down, burying his head in his trembling hands. “I don’t want to die,” he said in a very small voice. “Not like that.”  
  
There were a lot of bad ways to die. Jean knew. They all knew. He made himself keep looking at the pictures, rubbing a finger over the smudgy wings in the smoke. There were a lot of bad ways to die, but dying in the middle of a supernatural battleground had to rank at the top of the list.  
  
“We’re not going to die,” Jean whispered.  
  
“You can’t _say_ that, Jean.” Sasha sounded afraid. Well, so did he. But fear was an old friend to a coward like him.  
  
“I said it, didn't I?” he barked out, slapping a hand on the coffee table on top of the pictures he wished he could ignore. “We’re not going to die. We’re not going to be another Shiganshina, okay? We’re—we’re going to have dinner with our weird-ass neighbors and we’re going to figure this out and we’re going to _live._ Okay?”  
  
Someone down the street was slamming doors and yelling. Sunlight trickled stubbornly through the windows and the whole room smelled like dirt. Neither of them would look at him.  
  
 _Great plan, Jean. Dinner first, existential crisis over impending violent death later.  
  
_ Because what could they even do? Leave?  
  
Even considering it made his head spin.  
  
No, they couldn't leave.  
  
“We’re going to live,” he said desperately, grasping for _something_ , for the smallest shred of hope. “Because this is our city. Trost is our piece of shit city and I’m not going to let it vanish from existence because we were too busy praying for angels to come down from the sky and save us. We’re going to live, because what the fuck else is there to do?”  
  
“He’s right,” Sasha uttered hoarsely after a shaky moment. “Con, he’s—you gotta graduate so you can teach little impressionable kids how to be badass.”  
  
“Nah, Sash,” he lifted his head with a watery smile. “I’m gonna teach ‘em how to spell, and you can show ‘em how to beat the shit out of people.” He stood abruptly from the armchair and squirmed his way between them on the couch, arms thrown tight around his girlfriend. Jean hesitated only briefly before letting his head drop against Connie’s back.  
  
Jean could hear their hearts beating, all frantic, all afraid. All alive.  
  
“We’re going to live,” he whispered again.  
  
“We heard the first time, Jean, shut the fuck up,” they grumbled together, then giggled a little hysterically. He didn't mind. It was warm there, with the sun coming down.  
  
Jean would fight to protect this, whatever it took. Somehow. They'd find a way.

 

 

 

  
  
  
Eggs. He should have stuck to eggs. Shrimp was new and frightening culinary territory.  
  
“Looks edible to me,” Sasha said brightly, peering in on him where he stood, hovering fretfully over the various pots and pans. “Nice work, Jean.”  
  
“You think roadkill looks edible.”  
  
“It’s all about perspective. Don’t be so negative.” She bumped him aside with her hip. “I’ll watch it for a few minutes so you can change.”  
  
“I don’t need to change, I need to finish this!” he snapped. Sasha looked him up and down with a judgmental eye, pointing the wooden spoon she commandeered from him at the stairs.  
  
“Jean, I’m telling you this because you’re my friend and I love you. You’re gonna want to change.” She turned her attention back to the food. “Besides, this is almost done. Place your faith in the undisputed Supreme Ruler of the Kitchen!”  
  
He opened his mouth to yell something about how for a so-called ‘supreme ruler’ she managed to skip out on her cooking days with alarming frequency, but then he glanced down at himself. _Oh._ Jean was suddenly very aware of the rocky road ice cream stains on his sweatpants. Also that he was still wearing sweatpants.  
  
Also that he had been wearing these exact sweatpants when he talked to Marco this morning.  
  
“Holy shit,” he whimpered in sheer mortification. “Holy _shit,_ Sasha, I have to—I can’t wear this! I have to go change! Fuck! What time is—fuck! Don’t—don’t burn anything, okay, I’ll be right back down!”  
  
“Take your time, lover boy, I got your back. Or at least, I got your pasta.”  
  
She laughed at her own lame joke but he was already leaving the room. Jean ran up the stairs and nearly fell headlong into his closet as he skidded on the floor in his socks. At least he had done laundry, so he had options. Options were good. He scanned through all his clothes in a panic.  
  
Blue, he should wear blue. Blue looked good with his eyes. Or maybe red?  
  
 _Not a date. This is not a date. It’s a neighborly, friendly dinner. Not a date, not a date,_ not _a date._  
  
“Why is this so hard?” he growled through his teeth, stripping out of the accursed sweatpants and tugging on his go-to pair of grey jeans that fit _just_ right. His eyes fell on the sweater he had refolded on his desk chair and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. If only he could wear _that_ , Jean would feel a lot braver.  
  
“Connie?” he called out desperately, wincing at how his voice rose in pitch.  
  
A muffled ‘yeah’ came through the wall.  
  
“Clothes. Help me.”  
  
More muffled words, but he couldn't understand them this time. Jean marched over to the wall and smacked it.  
  
“I can’t fucking hear you! Get in here and help me!”  
  
There was a suspicious lack of noise from the other room. Jean growled again and turned back to the closet, digging through his nicest shirts. It shouldn’t be this hard. He knew he looked attractive in just about everything, so it shouldn't be this hard. Jean’s phone pinged with a text alert and he opened it out of reflex.

**From: Connie  
I SAID just wear what you always do when ur dressin to impress u loser  
green buttondown and the hipster trash vest**

**  
**“It’s called floral, dumbass!” Jean shouted, tossing the phone aside recklessly and restarting the search. Thankfully the shirt was hanging up and relatively unwrinkled. He rolled up the sleeves haphazardly before yanking the vest on and hurrying into the bathroom to straighten up.  
  
His fumbled with the buttons long enough for Jean to start muttering frustrated curses at himself. Too many damn buttons. When he looked at his reflection, a stranger peered back at him anxiously, color high on his cheeks and hair sticking out at odd angles. Jean smoothed down the hair into a vague semblance of order.  
  
 _You can do this, Kirschtein. Totally. You’re young, attractive, smart. What’s not to like, right? You can do this._  
  
 _In a minute. I can do this in a minute._  
  
The doorbell rang.  
  
Jean distantly heard Sasha yell, “I've got it”, heard Connie finally emerge from his room and tromp down the stairs, heard the door open, heard their voices. “Showtime,” he muttered. He  straightened his shirt one last time and went down the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom, a smile was on his face.  
  
It was Armin he saw first, hair half-up in a white cardigan and pale pink shirt, a bright smile on his features. Mikasa was at his shoulder looking more relaxed than she usually did but still as poised, in her usual monochrome palette except for the ever-present red scarf. Marco was at the back but once the door was closed—and Jean was thankful in that moment for the stream of chatter Connie and Sasha were creating as they directed their guests to the kitchen—he could see him clearly. He shot Jean a soft smile as he toed off his shoes at the entrance. For once, Marco wasn't wearing a sweater, just a dark blue Henley shirt that showed off a delectable amount of collarbone.  
  
“Hey,” Jean said, the words directed at all of them, but his eyes never wavering from Marco. “Glad you could make it.”  
  
“We were all happy to be invited.” Neutral words, accompanied by a not so neutral once-over with his eyes. Jean smiled back.  
  
Marco followed behind Jean into the combined kitchen-dining area, and Jean could have sworn he felt the brush of the other man’s hand on his back in gentle ushering. It was a little crowded with all of them at the table. Tables, rather—they had brought out the folding table usually reserved for the holidays when they went overboard making cookies and squished it right next to their usual table. It was cozy, Jean thought, and the conversation was comfortably flowing. Mikasa had a surprising deadpan humor that Sasha quickly became enamored with, and the whole table was filled with laughter as the two went back and forth.

Marco was relatively quiet but still attentive, throwing out his own comments from time to time, and having his warm bulk at his side made Jean relax. _  
  
_“The food was delicious, Jean,” Armin complimented him with a small smile, resting his elbows lightly on the table. They had been forced to turn on the overhead lights an hour ago, when the sun went completely down. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting us.”  
  
“Figured it would be the nice thing to do,” Jean said hurriedly to cover his flash of embarrassment. “Since you guys are new around here.”  
  
“You never invited any of the other neighbors,” Connie said not quite under his breath, then hissed in pain as Sasha kicked him in the shin.  
  
“All the same, it was kind of all of you to welcome us,” Marco said, smoothly covering the moment. Too deliberately to be unintentional, he shifted in his seat so that his leg brushed against Jean’s beneath the table.  
  
He was going to combust and die on the spot.  
  
He was happy.  
  
He should call his mom tomorrow and let her know.

“It’s a shame Eren couldn't make it,” Connie voiced. “You guys work a tough gig huh?”

“Tougher than some, I suppose,” Marco said evenly.  
  
“So did you all grow up here in Trost?” Armin asked, casually shifting the subject.  
  
“Yeah, all of us were born and bred,” Sasha said.  
  
“None of you ever left?” There was something less than casual in his even gaze despite his smile and Jean realized Mikasa was watching them a little too intently. “Not meaning to offend, but Trost doesn't seem to be the nicest of areas. You’re all young, you could live most anywhere.”  
  
A sharp pain hit his chest. He felt dizzy, like he couldn’t breathe. Trost was home, he couldn’t leave. Trost was home. He couldn’t leave. His head ached. There was nothing for him outside of Trost. He couldn’t leave. No one could leave.  
  
Warm fingers curled around his wrist and Jean sucked in a desperate breath of air. His hands were trembling. _What the fuck? What the fuck was that?_ Jean glanced at Sasha across the table, pale-faced and wide-eyed next to Mikasa. She held her fork like she intended to stab someone. To his left, Connie was rigid in his chair.  
  
God, his head hurt. Marco squeezed gently. Jean could feel every callous on that hand and thought hard about how much a person would have to use their hands to get those callouses, about how hard Marco must work to protect people to have those callouses. Anything to keep his mind off…the other thing.  
  
“You have to understand,” Marco said lightly, “we’re rarely in one place for long. It’s a novel idea for us.”  
  
Jean latched onto that like a lifeline. “You travel? Where’s your favorite place?”  
  
“The ocean.” Armin replied at once. “My favorite place to be is the ocean. What about you, Mikasa? Weren't you saying the other day how you missed seeing more trees around?”  
  
“The bigger the better.” She narrowed her eyes at Armin before her expression cleared, leaning back in her chair with crossed arms. Connie and Sasha relaxed as well with the change in topic, still looking a bit rattled. Had they felt it too? _No,_ Jean decided, _I’m probably just going crazy because I never sleep._

“I’m a bit of a city boy, myself,” Marco said finally. “I enjoy being around people.”

“Whoa, you can’t tell me you actually _like_ it in Trost. Not even the people who live in Trost like Trost.”

Marco chuckled, scratching at his nose before turning to look Jean squarely, a sweet smile tilting his lips upward and the light flashing in his dark eyes. “I’ll admit,” he murmured beneath the noise of Sasha trying to wheedle more stories out of Mikasa, “I’m more fond of the people than the place.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Connie’s phone rang and he excused himself from the table after squinting at the device for a long moment.

“Do you want help washing the dishes?” Mikasa offered, pushing back her chair from the table and standing, already collecting all of her and Armin’s utensils.

“Nah, it’s cool.” Jean sprang up. With all of them moving together, the table was cleared quickly of all the plates. Marco seemed to constantly be handing him things, their fingers or arms brushing together, but he managed not to fall over so that was an accomplishment of sorts.

Jean wasn’t certain what made him turn around, a noise or just a feeling, but when he did he immediately felt his good mood drop. Connie was standing in the partition between the living room and the kitchen. His face was pale, jaw set in a hard line. Jean pulled him into the other room, glancing back to find Marco’s concerned gaze on him before turning his full attention to his obviously distraught friend.  
  
“What was that? Who was on the phone?”  
  
“I have to go to the hospital.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The…the morgue.” The smaller man closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They need me to identify a body. Apparently there was a survivor from that mess down on Main last night, but he—he _died_ and it was my _friend¸_ and I have to go identify whatever the fuck is _left_ _of his body_.”  
  
His voice cracked on the last and a few tears slipped out of his closed eyes. There was a soft buzzing in Jean’s ears. He didn’t hesitate to pull Connie towards his chest in an embrace, listening to the sound of their erratically beating hearts. The emphasis he placed on _friend_ made him wonder if it was another kid from Ragako.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Connie. I’ll go with you. We’ll all go, okay?”  
  
Sasha touched Jean’s shoulder lightly and he allowed her to take over consoling her boyfriend. He breathed in and out a few times, feeling more than a little unattached to his body, but eventually turned and walked on numb legs to the kitchen. The attentive eyes of their three neighbors landed on him, not quite expectant, but the analytical light he saw mirrored in them felt alien and intrusive.  
  
“Jean, is something wrong?” Marco asked quietly.  
  
“There’s been an accident,” he said before he could ask. “A friend of Connie’s. We have to head up to the hospital to…to identify the remains. Sorry to kick you out and all, but…”  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Armin said at once, sympathy written on his features. “Take our car, it will be faster than public transport at this hour.”  
  
Jean nodded numbly, glancing back at his friends. They were still standing together, Sasha murmuring soft words to him.  
  
Marco had stepped closer by the time Jean turned back to the kitchen. His gaze was less alien but no less intent as his hands curled very carefully around Jean’s upper arms. Jean sucked in a breath at the warm touch, head still buzzing from the news. The food in his stomach felt like a heavy congealed mass dragging him down. He wanted to melt into Marco’s arms. He wanted to go to sleep and forget this happened. He wanted to not have to be afraid for his life and the lives of the people he knew.  
  
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do,” Marco said quietly.  
  
Jean bowed his head. His hair brushed against Marco’s chest and he leaned forward until his head rested against it. It wasn’t enough but it was all he could spare the time for. “Thanks,” he replied hoarsely. Armin and Mikasa were still hovering at one edge of his peripherals, Sasha and Connie at the other. The first pair stood in the too-warm lighting of the kitchen, the second in the too-cold dark. And there stood Jean, right in the middle. His body couldn’t seem to decide on its own temperature, his hands cold but his neck starting to collect beads of sweat. He was only upright courtesy of his locked knees and Marco’s hands. _Pull it together, Kirschtein. It was Connie’s friend, not yours. He needs you to pull it together, damn it._  
  
“Are you in any condition to drive?” Marco had lowered his voice further, keeping the words private. Jean wanted to laugh and bit his lip hard to hold it back. The question wasn’t quite an offer and Jean should have been grateful he wasn’t trying to intrude, but he also would have preferred to shove the responsibility of dealing with this off on somebody else.  
  
It was why he never pursued being a doctor. He couldn’t deal with the dead people. He couldn’t deal with the people the dead left behind. He choose mediocrity because he knew, _he knew_ he could never achieve perfection. Because mediocrity was safe. Frustrating, but safe. Excellence had consequences, consequences that were literally meant life or death.  
  
No. Fuck, no, he wasn’t in any condition to drive. But he bared his teeth at the floor, fighting against the burning sting of his eyes. “I can drive,” he replied. “Just give me a sec.”  
  
Marco didn’t speak. One of his hands gently rubbed through the shorter hair on his nape in slow, easy circles. The touch was comforting and grounding. Jean didn’t believe in god, but god bless Marco. He was confusing on all kinds of levels, but he seemed to know exactly what Jean needed.

“Jean, let’s go,” Sasha said and he felt her and Connie walk past them to Armin who passed along the keys and started walking out. His hands were shaking in clenched fists. _I don’t want to die,_ he kept thinking that as he tried to breathe normally. _I don’t want to die like that, too._ Marco drew him closer in a smooth motion, his arms tight and warm, his heartbeat a steady, calm metronome beat.

“I’ve got to go,” Jean mumbled into his chest.

“I know.” This close, Marco’s voice shivered through his entire body. The other man tensed slightly before pulling back, running his thumbs delicately over Jean’s cheekbones, intimate but chaste. “Be safe, Jean.”

How was he supposed to be safe?

“I’ll try,” he managed to whisper before he ran after his friends to the borrowed car.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Eren,” Armin spoke into his communicator as they stood on the empty lawn of their yard, perfectly even and clinical, “inform the others that our fifth from last night’s episode is to be marked down as a casualty.”

Marco’s skin kept _shifting_ in places and he couldn’t draw in under control. He stopped trying after a moment, knowing it was too dark for any humans to take notice, staring at the distant point where the car had disappeared. He shouldn’t have let Jean drive. He couldn’t have gone with them. But they shouldn’t be unprotected. Unprotected like their friend had been.

He remembered Eren’s words with a cold fury. _It isn’t enough._

A steely grip tightened on his neck, painfully, and he gasped in a breath, ready to snap until he saw Mikasa’s glaring black eyes. Not the intense almost-black of her human eyes, the all-encompassing black of her Demonic eyes. His own fury was mirrored there.

“Breathe,” she ordered.

He breathed. It didn’t help. It wasn’t enough. Her grip didn’t waver for an instant, and Marco realized if she let go, he really would lose it. Focusing on the pain, Marco forced himself to listen to Armin.

“Inform them as well,” Armin was continuing, lips pulled back from his teeth, “that Marco’s hypothesis on the Alpha exerting psychic control has been proven correct. It’s keeping the humans penned in the city like livestock.”

Except that livestock could break fences. Livestock could jump over the fences and the walls by choice, because livestock knew the fences and walls _existed._ The people of Trost were completely ignorant to what was going on. The sight of Connie’s tears wasn’t something he would forget, nor Sasha’s grim, trembling composure. Nor the sight of fear on Jean’s face. It was all there in his mind, urging him to do _something._

“Mikasa,” he growled. Her fingers only tightened on him in warning.

“Yes, I’ll be informing Hanji momentarily. Eren—I know.” Armin’s voice finally cracked, all the anger and sorrow he had been holding back filtering through. “I promise you, Eren. We’re going to kill them. I promise. Together. I promise.”

There was a soft click as he hung up. Armin’s touch to his shoulder was light, but Marco could feel the way he shook.

“Don’t be seen.”

Mikasa let go. Marco hissed as his wings took sudden form but the pain was meaningless. He took a running start, pushed off hard, and flew off after them into the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading!
> 
> I know this chapter is on the long side, but I did my best to break it up a little bit. There will be more action parts next chapter, I promise.


	6. Haunted Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loss. Memories better left alone always have a way of sticking around. Pain leads to comfort. The bad news gets worse, the worse news spells catastrophe.

Jean had seen dead bodies before.  
  
Not like this.  
  
Never…not like this.  
  
He forced himself to pay attention to what the doctors and the police officers were saying, but the words came to him through a fog as he stood in the brightly lit hallway. _Freak accident. Suspected motor vehicle collision. Suspected subsequent attack by feral dog. Other blood found at the scene but no other bodies in evidence. We did all we could but were unable to stabilize him._  
  
Jean noticed they didn’t lie about a painless passing.  
  
He wondered who they thought they were fooling with the feral dog story. What kind of dog could tear off entire limbs, bone and all? The fucking Hulk of feral dogs.  
  
Apparently the boy hadn’t been carrying an ID, but Connie was listed as his emergency contact when they finally got his mangled phone to power up. A Ragako kid, then. Too young to die. Sam, Connie had said in a strained travesty of a voice. His name was Sam.  
  
Everything smelled like antiseptic. He was used to it, he worked here, but it was wrong. Jean tightened his grip on Connie’s hand, feeling the smaller man trembling between him and Sasha, and Connie squeezed back. His hands were cold. None of them had paused to put on jackets, none of them had stopped to think that maybe the world outside was still the same even though there was one more dead kid.  
  
He stayed outside while Connie and Sasha went in to officially identify the remains, his back flat to the cold wall, staring resolutely at the morgue doors. They were old fashioned, with those round glass panes in them. It was like staring into a fishbowl. The vision of his roommates standing over a body on a table was painfully, perfectly clear.  
  
The head mortician came to stand by him, pressed a coffee into his numb fingers. Jean only knew her by sight, not name.  
  
“It’s a damn shame,” she said softly. “The young ones always are.”  
  
The coffee burned his throat all the way down. Cafeteria coffee always tasted like shit but you could count on it to be hot. Most of the hospital staff walked the two blocks to the nearest Starbucks instead.  
  
“A friend of yours?” she asked after a moment.  
  
“Friend of a friend.”  
  
She sighed again and pushed off from the wall, patting his shoulder in consolation as she passed by. “A damn shame.”  
  
We did all we could.  
  
Not much anyone could do for a corpse. Less for half a corpse.  
  
Jean drank the coffee. It was almost as scalding as his tears.

 

 

 

 

  
  
The whole drive back home, Jean couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Of being followed.  
  
Hunted.  
  
Paranoia was nothing new. He ignored it and focused on staying on the road.  
  
Connie and Sasha were crying in the backseat.  
  
“It’s gonna be okay,” she was whispering to him. Her voice trembled.  
  
He ignored them and focused. Stay on the road. He didn’t know how to protect them or himself, but he knew how to drive safely. It wouldn’t do to get pulled over in a rental that didn’t belong to any of them. Did the police arrest you for that kind of thing or was it just a fine?  
 _  
Oh but you see, officer, we had to borrow the car. Yes, it was an emergency. You see, someone we know got half-eaten by one of the supernatural monsters that uses Trost as a hunting ground. Can you let it slide just this once, officer?  
_  
Jean choked back his hysterical laughter. Focus. The road. Broken white and yellow lines _we did all we could_ and too-bright stoplights _we did all we could._ Focus.  
  
The city of Trost was so dark at night.

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
When they at last parked in the neighbor’s driveway and Jean turned off the ignition, they all sat in silence, listening to the engine click to itself.  
  
“I’ll return the keys.”  
  
Oh, that was his voice. He thought it had burned away with the coffee. It was too loud, too harsh, carrying the slight edge of an accent. Jean wiped his face clean on his sleeve. Time to wake up, Jean boy, time to get moving.  
  
“We’re going to die here.” Connie was talking again. “We called Shiganshina a graveyard, but Trost is the real graveyard. All of us are dead. We just don’t know it yet.” He laughed weakly.  
  
“You’re not dead, Connie,” Sasha admonished him. “I’m not dead. Jean’s not dead.”  
  
“Not yet, maybe.”  
  
“Don’t talk like that! I know you’re upset, but—”  
  
“But what, Sash? I should keep deluding myself that we can figure anything out? I mean, my god, optimism is one thing, but stupidity is another.”  
  
“It’s not stupid!” she yelled. The noise was painfully loud in the small space. “W-wanting to be alive isn’t stupid! Jean, tell him.”  
  
Jean leaned his head back against the seat, gazing out the window. Someone was sitting on the porch. Too small to be Marco. Did that matter? Should that matter? He wanted to sleep—no, he didn’t want to sleep because with sleep would come dreams. He wanted the world to be blank. He wanted to hide in the flat, featureless anonymity of knowing nothing at all, being nothing at all.  
  
“I’ll return the keys,” he repeated numbly.  
  
They all exited the car. The beep of the lock was jarring. Jean watched his friends slowly cross the lawn and enter their own house before approaching the porch. It was Mikasa who rose up from the steps and met him halfway.  
  
“The keys…” It would take too much energy to use full sentences. He dropped them into her outstretched palm. “Thanks.”  
  
At the firm touch of her free hand to his arm, Jean flinched and froze. Even through his shirt, her skin was oddly warm. Her dark eyes were steady on his.  
  
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mikasa said simply.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Her fingers squeezed once and dropped. “I’ll walk you home.”  
  
“You don’t—”  
  
“I’ll walk you home,” she repeated.  
  
Jean nodded once. Okay. She was already ushering him along and he was once again surprised how much space she seemed to take up despite her average height.  
  
A flash of movement at the corner of his vision made Jean whip his head around. There was nothing there. His eyes strained to pick out anything from the darkness, scanning the skyline where he thought he had seen _something._ An owl? Owls didn’t really live in the city, not enough trees, not enough space. Maybe a cat. A really big cat. The sense of being watched, rather than decreasing, had intensified.  
  
“Mikasa, did you see…”  
  
“See what, Jean?”  
  
Her voice was steady and she wouldn’t let him stop walking forward, one hand on his arm urging him on to his porch. Jean swallowed hard and shook his head, muttering for her to forget it. He shut the door and locked it behind him, and then kicked off his shoes. They had left the kitchen lights on while they were gone. Clumsy.  
  
The sound of voices drew him up the stairs, to Connie and Sasha’s shared room. The door was open but he still hesitated in the entrance. She was curled protectively around him, playing big spoon. The light from the gummy bear desk lamp was enough to see their miserable faces, and the tears that hadn’t quite stopped yet. Their room was almost garishly cheerful on a normal day, all bright colors and pictures plastered on the walls, candy-shaped pillows. Tonight it was surreal.  
  
“Hey,” Jean said.  
  
Sasha wriggled her fingers in a beckoning motion. Jean certainly didn’t need telling twice. He settled down close on the other side of Connie, knowing he would want the physical comfort.  
  
“I’m sorry about your friend, Connie,” he said at long last.  
  
“I can’t stop thinking,” he said in a choked whisper, “about how _scared_ he must have been. About how he d-died scared. And the others—I don’t even know who else was killed.”  
  
At least there’s a body to bury, Jean almost pointed out, but bit it back. Not that it mattered much. Connie could see it in his eyes. In penance he shifted closer and threw an arm around them both. Connie pressed his forehead hard against his sternum.  
  
“Those kids are so scared,” Connie mumbled miserably. “I know we’re scared too, but kids shouldn’t have to be scared. Not like that. Never like that. Never where they’re afraid they’re going to die every time they step outside the door.”  
  
“I know,” Sasha replied, soft and tired. “It’s not your fault, Con.”  
  
“It’s no one’s fault but this—this isn’t fair! What kind of fucked up world,” he broke off with a sharp inhale. “What the fuck did any of them do to deserve this kind of life? That could have been me. It could have been any of us. It’s _going_ to be one of us, eventually.”  
  
“Connie—”  
  
“This city is rotting apart and no one’s doing _anything._ I mean, did you feel that, at dinner? It’s not…it’s not right.”  
  
Jean’s head hurt just thinking about it. He shut his eyes tight enough that he saw red sparks dancing behind his eyelids. Some small part of his mind wanted to believe that if they all just went to sleep, things would be better in the morning. Tonight they would grieve. Tomorrow…maybe tomorrow he could find his will to live, to _fight,_ again.

But Jean sure as hell wasn’t placing bets on that one.

Connie shuddered between them. “I should be making calls,” he ground out. “I should…I need to contact Ragako. And Sam’s friends, _god._ ”

“It’ll keep ‘til morning,” Sasha said. Softly, softly.

“It’s not right,” he whispered.

Nothing was right. Jean got the feeling that things hadn’t been right in Trost for a long, long time.

 

 

 

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

 

 

Marco stayed pressed close to the roof tiles until Jean closed the door, then slid gracelessly down in a tumble of dissolving feathers and adrenaline. His nerves were worn thinner than thin, but for now his neighbors were safe. Jean was safe.

Mikasa reached him by the time he fully straightened up, her dark eyes glaring hard as she grabbed his neck and propelled him into the house.  
  
“He nearly saw you, Marco. Don’t let it happen again.”  
  
Marco didn’t have any words for her.  
  
“I don’t care what Armin says.” She stopped him at the threshold, fingers cold and painfully tight, short nails digging into his tingling newly-shifted skin. “You get too close to these civilians, it’s going to get you killed. We can’t protect you from command if they find out, Marco.”

It wouldn’t stop her from trying. He remembered back when Eren was on probation for struggling with keeping his Demonic side in check, remembered when his every action was being monitored. Mikasa had defended him, lied for him. But there was no going against the Capital, especially not kids who were once from the civilian world.

Marco didn’t want Mikasa to stake her life on him.  
  
“I’m not asking you to,” he said softly.  
  
The breath-stealing wallop of her punch was expected but he didn’t move aside. It was no more than he deserved. Family protected their own, even if he was a poor excuse for family at the moment.  
  
“Don’t push it.”  
  
Don’t push me, she meant.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he wheezed.  
  
He wasn’t.

Eren came barreling down the stairs, yelling “We’ve got company!” as he went past them, half-dressed and wild-eyed. They both looked instinctively to Armin, who appeared at the top of the stairs.

“One of the regular hotspots. Main and Seventh. You’re up, Marco,” he said, voice ringing with calm authority. Marco remembered the days when his voice shook, when he moved with hesitance, when he deferred, always, to his friends. Those days were long gone. Mikasa audibly ground her teeth, tugging her scarf straight and looking out to the street where they could hear the pounding of Eren’s bare feet against the pavement. More distantly still, the sudden break of quiet as the car started in the drive.

“Look after him.”

“You know I will.”

Marco turned on his heel and raced after Eren. Back to the darkness, back to the fight. He didn’t look to the house next door, although he longed to have one last glance. He hadn’t the time if he meant to protect this city and his control was already in shambles tonight. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hanji had told him before why blood was red.

They did a visitation to the training squad barracks, Moblit dutifully accompanying them—to do a visitor lecture, they had said brightly, which was half the truth. The other half was to see for themselves what the prospects for Survey might be that time around. They had talked about a lot of things, most of which went far over all of their heads, but some of it had stuck.

Blood was red.

Chemical structures and reactions, the beautiful purity of science. They had told him exactly how much blood his body contained, exactly how much he could lose and not die, and the long list of ramifications that occurred due to blood loss. He, like most of his training squad, had tested the limits of his regeneration when they were young and reckless enough to think that death was a fine and honorable solution so long as they took a Titan down with them.

That was before they comprehended how truly outnumbered they were in the never-ending war to fight for their survival. It was not a naivety that lasted long.

Blood was red. Human blood, animal blood, his blood. Titan blood, even though it evaporated quickly enough. Blood was red and it was all he could see beneath the harsh neon lights of the main street flashing into the alley.

“Eren!” he yelled hoarsely, wings limp at his sides. But his companion was beyond speech, golden eyes fixed on the last remaining Titan. It was feasting. There had been too many of them, or perhaps they had just come too late. Eren’s arms were both mangled, slowly recovering, but that didn’t stop him from launching forward with a furious roar, his jaw stretched impossibly wide to reveal his innumerate sets of teeth, leathery wings a dark cloak furled behind him.

He didn’t doubt that Eren could fight as he was, but there was so much blood and too much of it belonged to him.

“ _Eren! Fall back!”_

Marco ran forward, desperate, his body screaming for air, a moment’s peace to breathe. He didn’t have the moment. Eren’s teeth were buried deep in the Titan’s leg as it flailed in anger and pain, nearly knocking Marco aside as he leaped up and grasped for its neck.  
  
Soft tissue, so eerily soft beneath his armored fingers. More blood.

It went still, nothing more than a hollow corpse.

“Eren?”

The other man growled lowly, blood dripping from his many teeth as he finally released the Titan, steam rising from his body in a copper-scented fog. Marco cast his gaze to either ends of the alley. No one was coming yet, but that wouldn’t last long. They hadn’t managed to get the shield up in time to block out all the noise. He tried not to gaze upon the doll-like limbs and empty faces amidst the blood. Four more gone.

“We have to go.” He looped an arm around Eren’s waist to support him when he stumbled. “Can you fly?” They had ditched the car several miles away, when the gas meter dinged at them with annoying persistence. Eren’s shoulders were heaving and he shook his head jerkily, lifting his arms before him. The bones of his hands were crackling obscenely as they reformed, the slow growth of new veins, tendons and muscles crawling up them like vines. Marco swallowed hard and curled Eren towards his chest, trying not to listen to the sounds of pain he was choking back. He kept his bloody fingers curled into his dark hair, offering what little comfort he could.

“Sound off,” were the first shaky words Eren managed, the words garbled but still understandable. He inhaled slow, exhaled slower.

“I’m here. Right here, Eren.”

“Marco,” he eventually rasped out, voice still not completely back as Eren shifted from his full transformation. “Marco, we can’t leave them—”

“They’ll be found soon,” he forced himself to say. He hadn’t recognized any of the civilians, but how long before he did? He had seen enough bodies in his lifetime that it wasn’t much of a stretch to see a pair of glazed-over amber eyes, a pale blood-streaked face in his head. “We have to go.”

“But I failed them—”

“No one’s failed anyone,” Marco snapped out, sharper than he intended. Eren flinched slightly and Marco rubbed his back soothingly a few times in apology. “You didn’t fail. We killed the Titans. That’s what we came here to do. We have to go before someone sees us. Okay?”

“Too late for that,” a familiar voice called down from the roof.

They both looked up to where she was crouched on the edge of the building, pale batlike wings spread for balance. Even from this distance, the weight of her gaze was cold and heavy enough to make Marco shiver.

“I’m en route,” was all she said before she was back in the air, nearly silent in flight.

“Eren?”

“I can fly. I can. I will.” He grimaced at the tender new skin of his hands before trotting far enough away to make his ascent without their wings tangling.

They were both far from their physical limit still. Marco knew that.

But everything was just so damn red.

After snatching up the shielding device, Marco struggled back into the air, following Annie through the night air as sirens burst into life behind them. She didn’t once look back or give any indication she knew that they had fallen into formation behind her, her pale wings nearly translucent in the passing streetlights. She flew too low. She had always flown too low, like she couldn’t care less if she was seen. Not that anyone ever looked up. To his right, Eren’s breathing was labored but his flying was steady, several meters above and behind Annie.

“How far?” he called out.

“Not far.”

He didn’t bother to ask where her boys were because she usually patrolled alone. And because her boys were in the stationary guard, not the Military Police. They had all made the top ten of graduates, but she was the only one who went to the MP, aside from Marco. Foolhardy, were the whispers that were spoken of the 104th Training Squad when the news of their placements got out. Foolhardy and full of childish dreams.

Marco wondered if she ever patrolled with Hitch. They couldn’t possibly be friends, but he couldn’t help imagining how she might fight with the other woman. It had been years, but the memory of fighting beside her was still clear.

As he was about to call out to her again Marco caught sight of the open portal, ragged and _wrong._ Annie backpedaled just for a few moments, leaving Eren to hastily loop out of her path, and threw a shielding device at the ground to hide it from prying eyes.

“Six and counting,” she said smoothly, before moving into a breakneck dive, shifting forms as she went. The lights glittered off the crystalline scales that curled over her skin, almost distracting enough to draw the eye away from the exposed lines of muscles and tendons, the too-many-too-sharp quality of her teeth. Eren was already diving after her, a dark, less-armored twin.

Marco inhaled. Exhaled.

Plummeted towards the now hidden battlefield, skin burning as he changed. The pain was familiar and only seemed to prime his nerves for the pain yet to come.

The noise and the heat washed over him as he burst through the invisible barrier, a bitter taste heavy in his mouth as his pulse amped up again.

Red. So much fucking red.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The portal was closer to the Demon Trio’s homebase than their own, so that was where he and Eren headed with Annie to do a cursory clean-up. They passed a worried looking Reiner and Bertholdt on their way through the door to trade off shifts. They both touched him and Eren in passing, which made Marco wonder how bad they must look.

He had his suspicions, and wasn’t looking forward to seeing his reflection anytime soon.

“Shower’s upstairs,” Annie said but Eren was shaking his head already.

“Gotta get back to Armin,” he said with intensity, the gold not yet faded from his slightly unfocused gaze. “Mikasa too. They’ll want us back. They’ll need a report. They’ll need us back.”

She nodded, something dark flashing across her face momentarily. “Go wash your face then,” she amended and Eren moved up the stairs with heavy feet. Marco stepped around her and into the kitchen, running the water cold over his hands for several minutes, watching the red coil down the drain. Eren clomped back down the stairs, catching the spare shirt Annie tossed to him with a robotic motion.

“Marco?”

“Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Promise?” His voice dropped quieter, a little tremulous. Marco looked over his shoulder at him, not quite managing a smile but meeting his gaze steadily.

“I promise.”

Eren hesitated for just a moment, one hand brushing between his shoulder-blades before the other man slipped away.

“It’s not like you to let him go alone.”

Marco shut off the water and only just barely stopped from jumping when Annie shoved a towel into his face. He took it carefully, meticulously drying off his hands. He had missed some blood under his nails, but there was no helping that now. He ran the now damp towel over his face before letting it drop to the countertop.

“I thought we should talk.”

She didn’t say anything. She hadn’t changed or made any motion to get cleaned up, so there was blood all over her and her shirt was ripped most everywhere. Tucking her thumbs through her belt loops, she gazed up at him without expression. He thought about his promise to stay out of her way and cringed, because this was probably what Levi had wanted him to avoid. Any kind of conversation that might turn into an aggressive confrontation, any kind of conversation that might find its way back to the MP with his words twisted into _something_ they might use against Survey.

“What were you doing in our patrol zone, Annie?” Marco asked evenly.

Those hooded blue eyes narrowed minutely. “Passing through.”

“That’s a lie,” he replied, comfortable with that knowledge, because he had all but memorized the maps. “Do you want to maybe try telling me the real reason?”

Annie’s jaw tightened. “You maybe want to stop talking to me like I’m a fucking child?”

“More than happy to, once you stop acting like one.”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, before he could remember that they weren’t partners any longer—that she was playing for another team. And this, _this_ was the dynamic he remembered from all those years ago. She brought out his emotions, played with them. They sniped at each other but it had worked. They’d had each other’s backs. Marco could tell she was thinking about that too.

Annie let out a breath through her nose, turning aside. She picked up a shirt he hadn’t noticed from the table, one of Reiner’s judging from how low the v-neck went and held it out towards him. With a sigh, Marco tugged his ruined shirt over his head, balling it up and lobbing it into the trash.

“It’s just going to get wrecked.” What with abandoning the car, his only choice was either run or fly, and he didn’t have the patience for the run.

“Put it on after you land, dumbass.”

It was an empty gesture, in some respects. Marco had spare shirts of his own back at the house. An olive branch, then. Or just an old habit that had yet to die.

“So you’re not going to answer me?” he prodded again. “Annie, there was literally no reason for you to be that far into our patrol space. We have to work together and I want to trust you but—you’re making it really hard to.”

“‘s fine, I don’t trust your people much either.”

Marco suspected that was more Annie being Annie than Annie being MP. Still. He took a few breaths, setting aside the towel, and watching her face closely.

“Annie, if you just tell _me._ Just me. I promise that I won’t—”

“That you won’t go tattling to Survey command? You think I’m stupid now?” A sneer curled her lips but he saw something else. Just for a moment, but it was there. “Me telling you anything is as good as announcing it from the goddamn Capital towers, Marco. I’m not playing this game with you.”

“I know you, Annie,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen that look before.”

“You don’t know shit.” She threw the shirt at him, almost glaring. “Not about me. So don’t pull that line, thinking you’re being wise or some bullshit like that.”

“Annie—”

“You think I _like_ it there? You think I wanted to be separated from Reiner? From Bertholdt? You think I asked to be cooped up in the Capital like a prize dog unless command decides our division needs to contribute?” Her words were flat and cold and _hard_ , but her hands were balled into fists, crystal scales crackling across her skin. “You think I don’t know what the hell went down that made you turn tail?”

“Annie,” he repeated, softer. The memories were there, like always, not fresh but stronger than they should be, more painful than they should be. The shock of the revelation was distant and deadening. _She knew. I thought I left her without ever explaining it right, but she knew the whole time._ “I-If you knew then why…?”

She was silent.

“Annie, please.”

And suddenly he couldn’t speak. There was a cold sweat pooling at the base of his spine, he couldn’t hear anything over the rapid drumming of his heart. Old, bitter anxiety crawled up his throat, setting alight phantom pains all along his right side. _Shift,_ his body screamed at him, _shift, it’s not safe, shift._

The bones of his wings burst through his already sore skin before Marco could stop them, but he managed to hold it to just that—bones. The pain was acute and it took all he had not to scream, to ignore how Annie had stepped warily forward, hands lifted in a calming gesture. He barely saw it, too busy trying to hold himself still, to fight back the transformation.

 

_“By all rights, you should be dead. Hell, we thought you_ were _dead, kid._ _Beast took half your head with all the rest—”_

_It hurt. He had no words for the pain, no comparison for the blinding, sickening agony. I wish I was dead, Marco wanted to scream at them, I wish I was dead if this is what life is now._

_“You’re damn lucky we found you, kid. You were all set to burn with the rest.”_

_He had woken up among corpses, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Half his body gone, gone but growing, and he envied the corpses, prayed for the fire to come. Tomas. Mina. There were others but their names were beyond his grasp. Eren, where was Eren? Please, not Eren._

_“—biggest case of regeneration we’ve ever seen. Damn lucky.”_

 

Cold hands. Crystal hands.

“Breathe.”

Marco obeyed, copying her exaggerated inhales and exhales until his heartbeat calmed, until he was aware of how his skeleton wings curled protectively around himself, quivering. He breathed and let the transformation slip away at last, the bones disintegrating _all set to burn_ —no. No.

Marco straightened up slowly, staring into Annie’s icy blue eyes. Her hands stayed where they were curled around his forearms, still encased in crystal scales. This too, was familiar.

“Why didn’t you leave with me, Annie?” He felt weak. Out of control enough to not be able to stop the words. He should never have stayed behind, but he had to know now, couldn’t possibly leaving without knowing.

Annie let out a soft hiss through her teeth before she spoke.

“We couldn’t both leave.”

Marco shook his head, not following her thought process. He felt disoriented still. Weak, so weak. “Annie, Survey would have taken you in. Garrison would have taken you, of course you could have left. You could still—you could still leave.”

“We couldn’t both leave,” she repeated, with more emphasis.

And he understood.

“Annie,” he whispered, more breath than sound. Oh, Annie.

A spy. For who? For what purpose? For how long? Or perhaps it was a ploy of the Military Police, to try and—Marco couldn’t fathom what they would be trying for, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that this was a double-cross. Annie met his gaze for a long beat before her hands relaxed deliberately, the scales vanishing and melding back to human flesh as she let him go.

“I want to believe you,” he whispered.

“But you don’t.”

“I can’t afford to be wrong. None of us can.”

Annie nodded shortly.

“Go home, Marco. You’ll make them worry.”

“Why were you in our patrol zone?” he asked, one last time. She sighed.

“Go home, Marco.”

As Marco stepped off the porch, he could feel her gaze heavy on his shoulders, heavier than the wings that burned their way back into existence, slower and more painful with his exhausted focus. It didn’t matter. He would rest when he got home.

“Marco.” He glanced back to see her arms folded, the blood on her skin like black ink in this lighting. He couldn’t see her face clearly, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “If I could tell you, I would.”

 “But you won’t.”

Her shoulders moved in a rolling movement, less of a shrug and more like one of the stretches she did before punching somebody. _You don’t know me_ , she had said. Marco feared that had always been the truth, even before they were divisions apart. Marco swallowed hard and nodded once.

He could still feel her eyes on him long after he took to the air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
He hadn’t wanted to get up. No surprise there. Jean’s joints were stiff from not moving all night until his cellphone alarm chirped at him enough to wake up. It was disorienting to not be in his room, curled in a small corner of his roommates’ bed, but he managed to turn the alarm off after a few clumsy attempts.

“Going to work?” Connie rasped out.

Jean stared blankly at the too-bright screen of his phone for a few moments before levering himself up with a groan.

“Unless you want me here.”

Connie hesitated before shaking his head and burrowing back down next to his snoring girlfriend.

“Just…let me know you get there safe.” Even though his voice was muffled, it was easy enough to read the pain in it.

“Yeah,” his voice cracked slightly, and he touched the back of Connie’s head before exiting the room quickly, shutting the door very carefully behind him. Back pressed to the cheap wood, Jean stood there, trying half-heartedly to keep back the burning in his eyes and throat. There was nothing he could do. Not for Connie, not for Sasha, not even for himself. The fact that the sun was out, that it was a new morning—it didn’t change anything.

Deciding to forgo a shower, not trusting himself to look at his own face in the mirror, Jean instead tromped downstairs after throwing on his scrubs and stared at the piles of dishes from last night. It would only get more difficult to clean the longer he let them sit. Jean filled the sink with hot water, adding a healthy dollop of soap—berry scented—and piled some of the plates in there. They could soak for a while. Soaking was beneficial. An essential step towards having clean plates.

Things had gone well, last night, until the call. Jean took a morbid kind of comfort in that even though Trost was well on its way to a violent end he could do a passably good job as a host.

He checked the time, but it was still forty minutes before he would usually leave the house to head towards the bus stop. Jean listened to the faint sound of the soap bubbles disintegrating, hands holding tight to the counter. He tried the focus on the small things. His breathing. The way the edge of the counter dug a hard line into his palms. The sickly candy-sweet scent of the soap. The itchy pressure of a headache starting at the back of his skull.

It would be cold out, maybe. Jean went back up the stairs to find one of his clean hoodies.

He was instead confronted by Marco’s stupid sweater, still neatly folded and awaiting its return to its owner. Jean hesitated only fractionally before picking it up and holding it to his face. The scent was fading, but it was still there, too-sweet chocolate and the soft musk of feathers. He pulled it on roughly before he could change his mind and left the house, unable to stand the brooding silence any longer.

The car was gone next door.

It made his heart sink. Which was ridiculous. Jean tried being angry at himself, because it was usually easy—so easy—but he couldn’t find the willpower.

 

 

 

 

 

For once, Jean was glad for the crushing fullness of the bus on his way to work. He almost wanted someone to talk to him, just so he could distract himself, so he could maybe forget, just for a few moments. Almost.

 

 

 

  
  
“You’re here early, Jean!”

He only just stopped himself from falling out of his chair, glancing over at his co-worker who had just appeared in the room. She smiled, lifting her coffee in vague greeting. Starbucks, not the cafeteria shit. It must have been empty already. No food or drink in the lab was not only hospital law, it was just plain common sense. Lab Safety 101: you don’t want to catch a disease from anything you handle just because you didn’t caffeinate yourself prior to coming in to work. “If I had known you were coming early, I would have gotten you one too.”

“’s fine,” he managed to get out. He really didn’t need the coffee right now, anyway. It would only make him more jittery, which wasn’t something that would help.

“Heard about what happened last night. You okay? You’re not going to take some time off?”

Jean swallowed hard.

“I’d rather be working. Get out of the house.”

“Yeah, all right. If you need anything—”

“Thanks.”

“You get that notice?” she asked as she cleaned off her glasses. “About our retirement plan changing again?”  
  
“Must not have read it yet,” Jean grated out, staring mindlessly at the too-bright pixels of his computer screen with the orders they had to get through today.  
  
“Oh, it’s a great read, check it out. Bunch of baloney—they act like we’re all surgeons making the big bucks. I’ve got kids, you know? I’ve got house payments. What are they expecting us to live off of, huh?” She shook her head and replaced her glasses, giving him a look that was meant to be one of solidarity. But Jean’s head was buzzing and his eyes felt full of grit and it took all he had just to grimace back instead of bursting into laughter. He wondered what kind of bonus he’d get on his next check if he put in a call to the higher-ups to let them know they might as well cancel all their retirement plans because there was no way they were making it to summer this year.  
  
What were they supposed to live off of? They weren’t supposed to live _at all._ Maybe he should try to cash in on his life insurance and quit his job, wait out the end nice and peaceful. Except the end was bound to be anything but peaceful, when it came.  
  
Jean thought of Connie. He thought of the kids—the dead kids, the scared kids.  
  
Jean thought of Marco.  
  
Jean clenched his jaw and tried not to think at all.

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
He was greeted by silence when he came home, which wasn’t all that unexpected. Still, it would have been nice to come home to at least one of his roommates. Jean kicked off his shoes at the door and chugged a glass of water—the dishes were still submerged in the sink but the soap bubbles had all vanished. Later. He’d get to that later.

Jean slowly went up the stairs, fiddling with the hem of Marco’s sweater.

“Hi, Jean.” Sasha’s voice came out from her shared room, so he changed directions.

Sasha was eating refried beans out of a can with a spoon, occasionally adding a dollop of sour cream, staring at the muted cartoon playing on laptop screen. He opened his mouth to snap at her about eating dinner on the bed, then realized he didn’t have the energy to get into it. Nor was he entirely certain, what with them all being adults now, that beans from a can constituted a proper meal. With a sigh Jean sat beside her, and she leaned wordlessly against his side.            
  
“Connie?”  
  
“Helping make arrangements. For the kid. Sam.”  
  
Jean made a small noise of acknowledgement, wondering if he should call him, wondering if he should go to his side. But if Sasha was here, he must have wanted to deal with it alone. Connie would never leave her behind otherwise. Jean hadn’t heard from him after he had texted him that he had reached the hospital without incident.

"How did he seem?"

"You know him. Always compartmentalizing." She sighed. "He'll be okay. It's just...you know."

Jean knew.  
  
“Want a bite?”  
  
“Fuck no,” he mumbled tiredly.  
  
“’S’that fake stuff you like.”  
  
“Tofutti.”  
  
“The fake stuff, yeah.” Sasha shoved the spoon his way in offering. He hesitated for maybe a second before taking a bite. It wasn’t five-star but there was something satisfying about cold beans and imitation fatty goodness.  
  
“I didn’t think we had any.”  
  
“I went and bought some. Skipped work.” Her explanation was casual, but her fingers clenched around the spoon briefly. Jean nodded. He would have skipped if he didn’t think he would have driven himself up the wall, sitting around at home. They sat, watching the silent bright colors flash on her computer. Eventually Sasha stopped leaning on him and Jean left the room to change out of his scrubs, and he didn’t feel better, but he didn’t feel worse.

The doorbell rang just as he finished changing into sweats and back into his appropriated sweater. Jean slumped down the stairs, barely avoiding the sticking-out nails on the bottom steps and flung open the door fully expecting to see an irate postal worker because they hadn’t bothered checking the mailbox in a few weeks.  
  
“Jean,” Marco said with an obviously relieved smile.  
  
“Marco,” he replied, not having any other words. Seeing his smile broke through the shell of numbness around his body, the point of warmth in his chest enough to stir him back to the sharpness of reality. The other man looked about as exhausted as Jean felt, and more uncertain than he had ever seen him be.

“Jean?” Sasha called down the stairs, interrupting their staring session.

“It’s nothing, Sash!” he yelled back. “Just Marco. I’ll…I’ll be back in a few.”

He stepped onto the porch in his bare feet, which he regretted immediately but he had already shut the door behind him. That left them alone in the late afternoon light. All Marco was wearing were a pair of jeans and an absurdly low-cut black shirt that hung loose from his frame. It didn’t seem like he felt the chill in the air.  
  
“Jean, I’m so sorry about—so sorry for your loss.” Marco hesitated slightly, dark eyes roving over him restlessly. “How are the others? How are you?”  
  
They were broken and terrified and somehow trapped in the city to await their deaths. Jean swallowed back the tears that tried to climb his throat. “We’re…okay. Or we will be. In time.” Time they didn’t fucking have, but Marco didn’t need to hear that. To know that. _Keep it together, Kirschtein_. “It’s just…hard. Real fucking hard. I—I, um…”  
  
Marco reach forward carefully, curling his hands around his arms. There was so much restrained strength in that touch, so much heat bleeding into Jean’s numb skin and Jean’s last thought was _screw it_ before he shoved himself forward right into the other man’s chest. Marco didn’t hesitate to embrace him, but Jean heard and felt him draw an unsteady breath.  
  
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Jean. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”  
  
“Maybe just—just stay like this,” Jean said hoarsely. “For a minute. Please.”  
  
Marco’s hold tightened on him just a little. “As long as you need, Jean. I’ve got you.”

So they stood there in silence, Jean’s bare feet tingling unpleasantly from the cold and the rough wooden slats beneath them. The porch swing made little _eeks_ of noise in the breezy air. He wished he had the luxury of not believing in monsters, he wished the hollowed-out images of Shiganshina and the tiny broken body of the dead boy weren’t waiting behind his eyelids.

“Marco,” he said, speaking the words into his chest because that was easier than looking at his face, because the warmth was grounding. He felt safe even though he thought he smelled a trace of coppery blood on his skin. “Marco, I’m going to tell you something and I need you to know that I…I mean well.”

The man’s arms tightened around him and a soft hum rumbled out of his throat.

“You need to skip town, Marco. I don’t know how much this gig’s paying you or—or if Armin wasn’t lying when he said you were just a friend visiting. Whatever’s keeping you here, it’s not worth it. You have to go. Please. Before…before something happens to you.”

Marco’s arms tightened again, just short of painful but it was fine. Jean was fine. It had been a long time since anyone had held him like that, had wanted to touch him, who watched him with dark eyes that promised something wonderful if he could just find the right words to compel him.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Jean,” he said softly, perfectly even. Jean almost believed him, but he could hear the thrumming of his heart, this close, could hear the tiny hitch in his breath.

“Trost, it’s not…it’s not safe.”

“I know, Jean.”

“No you don’t! You’re not from here, you don’t fucking get it!” Jean tried to struggle back away but Marco wasn’t letting him go this time. He growled, hitting him in the side just once, the side he remember seeing littered with scars. He didn’t react to the strike other than a soft release of breath. “Something bad is going to happen if you stay, so you have to fucking go, Marco. You have to go.”

“And if I go?” His voice was still so damnably calm. “Will that stop anything bad from happening?”

Jean shivered, willing the burn in his eyes to go away before it formed into real tears. This was already hard enough without that bullshit. “No,” Jean said between gritted teeth, his forehead pressed hard against Marco’s chest. “But you’ll be fucking safe.”

Which was a hell of a lot more than Jean could say for anyone else but they didn’t have the option of leaving. He couldn’t leave. Christ, but his head was starting to hurt. He needed to sleep.

“Jean, I…I appreciate that. Truly. But I’m not going anywhere, okay? I have—we all have a job to do here, and we mean to see it through. Jean?” Marco’s voice came from some far-away place as it became harder to focus above the throbbing in his skull, the sharp pressure behind his eyes that made it hard to breathe. “Are you listening?”

He couldn’t leave, no one could leave, Trost was home he couldn’t leave and his head god his head wouldn’t stop it won’t stop _leave I can’t leave no one can leave no one no human can leave no_

“Jean? Jean!”

Distantly, he felt hands shaking him, but he was drowning in the words, the spinning pain in his mind. And the voice, the horrible _voice_ , it wasn’t his. The words weren’t his but they were _there_ and it _hurt_ and they wouldn’t _leave_.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Jean.” Jean really didn’t know why he sounded so panicked. The pain was fading into a buzz, a beautifully blank landscape of white noise and dots flashing before his eyes. There was a vague sense of motion—that wasn’t okay. His head felt sick. Or his stomach. Both? It brought back the pain. Jean clung to the thing holding him captive.

No, that wasn’t right. The buzzing was too loud, he could feel his thoughts struggling to make their sluggish way above the great, roiling sea of the nothingness. Marco. It was Marco, just Marco.

That was okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“See? Do you see?”

“Shh, you’re going to wake them up!”

“Lemme go get my phone, I gotta take a picture!”

“The flash—Sash, Sasha, no—seriously, no, just let them sleep—”

The voices faded away with accompanying footsteps, but Jean was already struggling awake, his head achy and sick. He was warm, which was one good thing at least. Last he remembered, he had been outside. Outside doing what? Talking to Marco, but he couldn’t remember what about— _ah_.

That was definitely an arm draped over his chest.

He felt much more awake now. Holding his breath, Jean slowly turned his head, following the dark, freckled arm all the way up to the equally freckled face and a pair of dark eyes, very awake and watching him. How long had he been doing that for? Jean made a strangled noise in his throat, only just barely keeping himself from flailing away. He’d only end up falling on the floor and his head hurt enough without doing that to himself, thanks.

“Dude,” he hissed, heart kicking into a higher gear, “warn a guy if you’re going to be _staring_ like a goddamned creep _._ ”

More like give a guy some warning if you’re going to be that goddamned attractive _in his bed._

Marco smiled, the edges of it soft and gentle enough that Jean’s heart ached from it. Their faces were close enough that Jean could see just how dark the shadows beneath his eyes were, that he had really long eyelashes.

“Sorry, Jean.”

“You, uh. Been awake long?”

“Just since your roommates decided to drop in.”

Small favors. Jean swallowed hard, fighting the deep, powerful urge to move even closer and fall back asleep. Marco was just so warm and he was right there, his brown hair mussed and his languid posture sleepy-soft and welcoming. That was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. Jean started to sit up and immediately regretted it when his head got a lance of delightfully stabbing pain.

“Easy, easy, Jean.” Marco gently pulled him back down, concern knitting his brow.  He propped himself upon one elbow, hovering partially over him. “Just lie still. Just rest.”

Too close. Too intimate. Jean shoved him so he wasn’t looming over him _in bed_ , certain that if his head wasn’t hurting so much he’d be bright red. Even though he was also quite certain that he couldn’t move Marco an inch if he tried, the other man settled down next to him again without a fuss. He did miss the warm weight of his arm around him, though.

“What the hell happened?” he finally asked.

Marco hummed thoughtfully. “We were talking and you suddenly looked ill, then you passed out for a few moments. You woke up but were…you were barely coherent, so I carried you back inside. Sasha showed me where your room was. I, um. I was going to leave you to rest, but you…”

“I what?” Jean prompted, even though he dreaded what Marco might say. All he remembered was being in Marco’s arms and the pain in his head. Not much else, certainly not what they had been talking about.

“You—well, you weren’t really that with it, but you told me not to go. You wouldn’t let go.” Marco looked a touch flustered, color high on his cheeks. He rubbed beneath his nose in a reflexive motion. “I meant to just sit with you, but I guess I fell asleep too. It was, um, an accident.”

If he wasn’t red before, he certainly was now.

“You d-didn’t have to stay, dumbass,” he grumbled, throwing an arm over his face.

“I couldn’t just leave you when you asked me not to!” For a wonder, he sounded scandalized.

“I was out of my goddamn mind, Marco. Would you have bought me a pony if I asked for that too, huh? You know what, don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know.”

Marco chuckled and the sound seemed to reverberate through Jean’s body. “I _am_ sorry for falling asleep, though.”

“Nah.” Jean moved his arm out of the way so he could look him in the face. Marco’s gaze was unwavering. “You look like you needed the rest.” Something flickered across his face, too fast to really catch. Bruised shadows beneath his eyes and something hunted at the very back of his eyes, he seemed like he hadn’t gotten nearly enough rest, even with the nap.

“So do you.” Marco lifted his hand, like he was going to touch Jean’s face, then sucked in a sharp breath and quickly drew back. “Sorry,” he said abruptly, turning his head so he was staring at the ceiling. His jaw was clenched, the line of it like a blade beneath his skin.

_What the hell._

Jean watched him for a moment, frowning. Then kicked his leg, deliberately hard. Marco made a noise of pained surprise, but at least it got him to look over again.

“Don’t pull that shit, Marco. We took a fucking nap together, you’re allowed to touch me.” He hesitated just for an instant before barreling onward, ignoring his blush, ignoring the way Marco watched him so closely. If he was going to die, it would not be before he got over this ridiculous pining stage. “Unless I’m reading this completely wrong and you’re this handsy with all your friends.”

_Please don’t let me be reading this wrong, please. Let me have just this one thing, this one good thing. Just for this moment._

Marco’s lips curved up in a smile, sweet but tinged with sadness. Before Jean could resign himself to the fact that yeah, he’d been a fucking idiot, the other man reached out his hand again, rubbing one thumb over his cheek. Jean could barely breathe.

“I suppose I’ve been rather obvious,” he murmured, not quite a question. Marco’s skin almost burned with heat against his. His expression went serious and he leaned in close, breath ghosting across Jean’s skin. “You’d be better off forgetting about me, Jean.”

The anticipation that had been curling in his belly turned into a heavy knot. Anger was more familiar than the dread, easier, so he reached for that.

“What the fuck, Marco.”

“Jean—”

“No, what the actual _fuck_.”

“I just mean that I’m…I’m not a good person to get attached to. That’s all.” Marco swallowed, eyes lidding as he gently bumped his forehead against Jean’s, paying his anger no mind as his other hand brushed hesitantly over his waist. And it was hard to stay angry, hard to think clearly at all when all he wanted was to kiss him breathless.

“Because you’ll end up leaving?” That hurt to think about. Both in his stupid, pounding head, and his stupid, pounding heart. It would be better if he left, safer. But he wanted him to stay, so badly. Marco shut his eyes tightly and finally curled his arm around him, shifting ever closer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I…yes.”

Jean freed one of his arms from where it was trapped between their chests and touched his face lightly, running his fingers along the crease of his frown until the line relaxed, along the curve of his cheek. His scars were slightly raised but just as smooth as the rest of his skin. The freedom to touch was exhilarating. Jean didn’t really drink, but he’d been drunk before. This though, this was a different kind of drunk, a sweet and heady dizziness that buzzed in his blood.

 “I don’t give a shit about if you’re leaving.” _I do. You should leave now, you should survive this, I need to know you won’t go down with the whole damn city._ “I care about now. And right now you’re—you’re fucking _here._ I’m assuming that’s because you damn well want to be.”

Marco made a soft, choked noise in his throat.

“I do. I do, Jean.” His eyes fluttered open, darker than he’d ever seen before, and his skin was _burning_ beneath his touch. “I want to be. With you. I want.”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked a little, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yes.”

Marco’s whisper was reverent in a way that went straight through his chest.

“I mean, you _should_ leave,” Jean managed to grind out, an afterthought. “Trost is a real shithole.”

Marco’s lips pressed to his, the barest of pressures. It was brief. Warm. All his nerves sang with it. “I’m not leaving,” he murmured. Jean couldn’t help the grin that split his face, which only made it harder when he moved forward those scant inches that separated them to kiss him back. His lips were chapped and their teeth clacked together a few times, but Marco made this noise Jean _swore_ was a purr, and his mouth opened without hesitation to him and it was everything he wanted. It was more.

They broke apart to draw in a shivery breath. Marco was smiling, lopsided, and he still looked exhausted but it didn’t seem to matter as much. He was achingly aware of every place his body pressed along Marco’s, of them both panting for air.

“W-What?” Jean muttered when Marco just kept watching him, fingers curled through his hair. Marco shook his head slowly.

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“My sweater looks good on you.”

Jean rolled his eyes, a little disappointed that that was it. “Good, ‘cause I’m not giving it back.”

A raucous shriek of noise broke apart the poised moment. Marco visibly cringed and leaned in to press his forehead to Jean’s, hard, then to place a light kiss on the bridge of his nose. Then he was rolling away, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned, pulling out his phone—and a fucking weird looking phone it was—and answering calmly, with not even the slightest trace of the passion he had just kissed Jean with.

“This is Bodt, go ahead.” There was a pause and Jean watched a sharp line of tension slide up his shoulders. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”

Jean rolled closer, snagging Marco’s free hand to measure against his own. It was bigger, but comfortably so, his palm broad and his fingers long enough to curl over the tips of his own. He intertwined their fingers, hiding a smile when Marco squeezed gently.

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

He hung up, tilting his head back with a slow exhalation. Jean watched the stretch of his tendons, the captivating shift of muscles, the dark skin exposed by the vee of his shirt.

“What’s up?” Jean asked, squeezing his hand again when it seemed like the other man would continue sitting in silence. A faint smile curved his lips and Marco leaned down so their faces were close again, their clasped hands caught between them.

“That was work. I have to go.”

“Seriously?” The word came out slightly more whiney than he intended but Marco’s smile just widened.

“Unfortunately for us, yes.” His eyes were darker than the usual puppy-brown softness that made Jean want to melt into the floor, and he swore he could see a faint golden sheen. “Get some rest, Jean.” With that, Marco made to get up. _Oh, no you don’t._

Jean pushed himself up a little and curled his free hand around the back of Marco’s neck—very cognoscente of the full-body shiver that caused in the other man, but much more intent on claiming the lips that dropped open just a little at his touch. Earlier had been gentle and happy, just testing the newfound waters. That was all well and good, but it had been a long time since Jean had kissed someone and he _wanted._

Fuck, but he wanted.

There was nothing tentative about the tongue that slipped into Jean’s mouth when he opened it to Marco, nor the small groan when Jean’s short nails scratched gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. Jean only very reluctantly pulled back, but not before nipping gently at his lower lip.

“Jean,” he said, and he couldn’t tell if the way he said it was a curse or a prayer. He imagined he could hear the soft displacement of air from his eyelashes. Jean grinned and let himself fall back on the mattress, tugging his hands away.

“Bye, Marco.”

Marco inhaled once slowly and exhaled just as slow, sitting there on his bed with his hair still messy from their unintentional nap and his lips faintly red and swollen. Jean was half-hard, body thrumming with pleasure. But this was good. Just like this, it was good.

“That was unfair,” he murmured. Even so, Marco pushed himself up, taking a moment to straighten his appearance before looking at Jean again. “I’ll see you later.”

“When’s later?

Some of the tension returned to his body as he considered Jean’s question. “Tomorrow,” he amended. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jean.”

“You promise?”

Jean didn’t realize those words had made it past the privacy of his thoughts until Marco froze, perfectly, unnaturally still.

“I, um, hah, that was just—”

Before he could try to backpedal out of the situation his dumb mouth had gotten into him, Marco had turned back around, something dark and intense in his face as he cross the small distance between them and crushed his mouth against Jean’s.

Oh. _Oh._

Even as he tried to respond—enthusiastically, if a bit confused—Marco’s lips moved lower, leaving soft kisses along his jaw. Then lower still, until he latched onto the fluttering pulse point in his neck with his teeth before sucking. Jean let out a loud, keening sound, only just managing to muffle it a little _because oh god, they definitely had to hear that_ by biting down on Marco’s shoulder. His whole body shook with the heat beneath his skin and if he had words, he would curse the way Marco’s fingers pressed up the back of his sweater, delicately petting the dimples of his lower back.

“F-Fuck, Marco,” he gasped out.

The other man hummed against his skin, holding him tight for a moment more. His tongue laved over the now faintly sore spot on his neck once last time before he pulled away, gently letting Jean slip back onto the mattress. His pupils were blown, lips slick with spit. Jean didn’t dare look lower. He was positive that he was in a worse state, anyway.

“I promise,” Marco said hoarsely.

“H-Hell of a damn promise, Marco.”

He hummed again, low. Jean had meant it to be a joke, to lighten the unbearable tension in the room, but Marco very obviously serious. Letting out a slow breath, he ran a hand through his hair to straighten it out, fingers hovering over his lips before his hand dropped to his side.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah.” Jean swallowed hard, trying not to feel weird about lying on the bed they had just shared, harder than he’d ever been in recent memory, while his neighbor turned friend turned _more than friend_ looked at him like he was his prey. “See you later, Marco.”

He left. Jean closed his eyes, still feeling shaky. His head still hurt but it was a vague thing, unremarkable in comparison to the other feelings singing through his bloodstream. Marco’s scent was all around him.

Marco wanted him.

“Bro,” Connie’s voice came from the door way, half-reverent and half-appalled, “you two better never actually get it on while I’m home because you both are fucking _noisy_.”

“Yeah, and that escalated fast. Like _real_ fast.”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Jean snapped out, wincing at how his voice was still a touch breathy. “And learn to respect a man’s right to privacy!”

“Yeah, be gentle with him, Sash, he’s been in a dry spell for the past year.”

“More like the past decade, right?”

They both snickered. Jean reached up and whipped one of his pillows in the general direction of the sound and was gratified at the shriek that ensued. They left him alone though, which he was grateful for.

He wanted to savor this one good moment while he could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Control. Breathe. Where is your thrice-damned shitty fucking control, Marco Bodt?_

Probably shattered to dust on Jean’s bedroom floor somewhere.

He was thankful for the distance between their houses, and irritated that it wasn’t enough to calm himself down.

_If you hadn’t pulled that stunt back there, you’d be fine._ The memory of Jean panting beneath him, that desperate whimpering he made when Marco touched him— _stop._

Just stop.

Eren opened the door right as Marco stepped onto the porch. “Dude, it’s about time—holy _shit,_ Marco.”

Marco’s hand flew up, trying to straighten his hair again. There was nothing he could do about his swollen lips. Or anything else, really. He was grateful it was darkening outside, to perhaps hide some of it.

“Um. Okay.” Eren stared at him wide-eyed, obviously at a loss. His skin had lost its blood-loss pallor from last night, but he was still wearing—like Marco—the borrowed shirt that Annie had tossed his way. _Annie._ That was a sobering thought. “Okay.”

“That bad?” He winced at the gravelly tone his voice came out in.

“I mean, should I be congratulating you?”

Bad. Definitely bad.

“Eren, is he here yet?” Mikasa called out from in the house.

They stared at each other for a beat.

“Can you stall—”

“I’ll stall her—”

They spoke on top of each other, Eren already shoving him inside and towards the stairs, yelling out to Mikasa that Marco was here but he needed to take a piss.

Marco couldn’t care less what he said so long as he got a few precious minutes to better compose himself. He nearly slammed the bathroom door behind him, turning the water up as high and as cold as it went, splashing it liberally on his face, not caring that it got his shirt wet.

He clenched his teeth at the unpleasant chill and finally dared a glance at his reflection.

Eyes black and hazy with still cooling desire, skin healthily flushed, it was no wonder Eren had asked about congratulating him. It felt a bit pathetic to get this bad from a couple of kisses. Marco swallowed hard and counted his breaths, forcibly calming his heartbeat.

“Marco.” Armin rapped his knuckles on the door. “Mikasa and I have to leave for patrol soon, hurry up so I can get this debriefing over with.”

Marco hastily wiped his face dry with the nearest towel and left the bathroom, resolutely ignoring Armin’s one quirked eyebrow at his disheveled appearance and the lingering once-over he gave him.

“Anything I need to know about?”

“No, sir.”

_Oh for the love of all that is holy._

Armin’s blue eyes went wide for a moment, mouth silently forming ‘sir’.

“Well. That’s a new one.”

“It’s just—the Commander says it the exact same way— that’s not _fair,_ Armin. Stop looking at me like that.”

The amused grin he flashed just momentarily was crooked and made him look much younger again. “Nothing to tell your commanding officer?”

“No,” Marco said emphatically.

Armin nodded, reaching up to straighten his ponytail. “Good. Because you’re looking a lot healthier than you did last night, so speaking as your friend I don’t give a shit what you had to do to get yourself some half-decent R&R.”

Marco swallowed hard, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. He didn’t trust himself to say anything when he didn’t have time to think it over. And if there was one thing they didn’t have, it was time.

“Mikasa’s going to give you hell when she finds out.”

“I know.” He probably deserved it. No, he knew for a fact he deserved, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Armin watched him closely for another moment before heaving a sigh, lightly moving down the stairs.

“Well, that’s _that_ then. Everyone gather ‘round,” he pitched his voice louder when they reached the base of the stairs, “and tell me what news you’d rather hear first, bad or worse.”

“How much worse is the worse?” Eren asked worriedly.

“Worse enough.” Armin bent down and tugged on his boots. “All right. I passed along the message that the civilians’ mental state has been compromised by the Alpha Titan to Hanji. As of now, they don’t think there’s anything we can do to free them, other than turning them Warrior. Not that that’s really an option. Not on a mass scale.”

Mikasa folded her arms, leaning one shoulder against the wall, eyes half-closed as she listened, and Eren right beside her.

“Then what’s the bad news?”

“That _was_ the bad news.” Armin straightened up, tugged at his hair once more, and fell still, gazing off at some distant point past Eren’s head. “The worse news is that the Titans are bringing the war to Trost.”

In the quiet that fell, they could hear the distant, muffled sounds of an argument a few houses down, the soft ticking and creaking of the house around them.

“H-How do you know that? How can you be sure?” Eren’s voice was small, but they could all feel the anger starting to roil around him.

“We know because the same thing happened at home. At Shiganshina.” Armin reached for his blade case, slinging it over one shoulder, still not meeting anyone’s gaze. “Hanji and the higher-ups are 85% certain about this.”

“You’re certain?”

“And me. Yes. I wish I could say differently. Within the next week or so, is the estimation.”

Marco let out a hiss between his teeth. “What are the orders?”

Armin bared his teeth in what was surely meant to be a smile. “For now? Same as they’ve always been.”

Fight the Titans. Kill the Titans. Minimize human casualties when possible.

“Commander Erwin is testing the waters in the Capital. If things go well, he’ll be able to speak about the Alpha Titan and summon the divisions to arms.”

Mikasa pushed away from the wall. It was hard to breathe between the intensity she gave off and the unbridled fury that Eren exuded. Mostly Marco just felt afraid, and he envied them their anger, their passion. He tried to rein in the feeling, twist into something more useful. He thought of Jean. Marco needed to survive. The cold nerves slowly coiled warmer at that. The desire to protect him, to protect the city—he could use his fear for that end.

“And if all doesn’t go well?” she asked lowly. “What then?”

“Then Survey’s fighting this war alone. We might be able to count on Bertholdt and Reiner to stay with us, but Annie…well, even with them there’s no guarantee. Worst case scenario, Hanji takes command and Survey goes rouge.”

“What about Levi?” Eren asked, eyes flashing gold, green, then gold again. “Where’s he?”

“He’s with the Commander.” Armin stepped forward and took Eren’s hands, holding them tight to his chest. “Along with most of his squad. They’ll keep each other alive. If anyone’s capable of doing that, it’s him.”

Marco tried not to think too hard about that. Erwin was far from defenseless, being praised as a tactical genius, but he was human. He had no armor, no wings. And for the Shiganshina Trio, for whom Erwin and Levi were practically parents, he knew it must be even more difficult.

Armin left for patrol with Mikasa at his shoulder. They were strong, Marco knew. Unreasonably strong. But even they look small against the backdrop of the darkness and the knowledge that at any time, the Titans would be here in full force, just as many as there were back in their own world.

The humans wouldn’t stand a chance, not if no one else made it here. _They_ wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I can’t stand this waiting,” Eren growled out. In just that oversized shirt and running shorts, the faint scars were he lost his arm and leg were fully visible, pale and jagged circles that hadn’t healed fast enough to spare him the marks. He quickly averted his eyes, pushing aside the flicker of remembered pain that threatened to rear its head yet again.

Marco didn’t bother to say that they would soon have more than enough fighting to go around, that soon enough they would be praying for relief from the bloodshed and battle. Waiting was part of being a solider, too.

“I know,” he said instead. He touched Eren’s shoulder in passing as he slipped into the kitchen in search of cocoa. He couldn’t imagine sleeping after that receiving that news.

“I’m going to kill them all, Marco. I’m going to erase each and every one of them from this world. I won’t stop until they’re all fucking dead.”

For once, his voice was calm and even as he said those words. Like he knew them for certain fact, like he truly believed he could do it. Maybe he did, maybe he just wanted to convince himself. Marco wanted to believe it too.

“I know,” he repeated, softer.

“Marco?”

He glanced back and saw the question burning on his friend’s expression, and smiled. “Yeah. I’ve got your back. Always.”

Eren nodded, satisfied with his assurance, stepping around him to grab a can of soda and sit at the table. Waiting was always hard when it came to battle, but it was worse to wait alone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And thanks for everyone's patience with how long this particular update took.


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